


Holiday Love

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Caterer Dean Winchester, Christmas, Christmas Party, Christmas Shopping, Falling In Love, Family Feels, Firefighter Dean Winchester, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Handyman Dean, Holiday Love in Destiel (but better), Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, Intimacy, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Meet-Cute, Naomi and Zach are good parents, Podcaster Castiel, Romantic Comedy, Singer Dean Winchester, Skeptical Castiel, Sweet Dean Winchester, Ugly Holiday Sweaters, holiday parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28179096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: Popular podcast host Castiel Novak has a secret. While his listeners see him as an expert on romance and the magic of the holidays, Castiel has never truly experienced any of that for himself. This year, that’s about to change, and the timing couldn’t be more perfect. As Castiel is preparing to embark on a whirlwind promotional tour for his new book, he stops by his hometown to celebrate Christmas with his family. Unexpectedly, sparks ignite between him and beloved local jack-of-all-trades, Dean Winchester. This year, Castiel might be forced to learn what “Holiday Love” is really all about—but can he put his cynicism aside enough to let Dean in?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 373
Kudos: 548
Collections: FicFacer$ 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection, fanfics tbr for the podcast





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheRealJ2MLovesDestiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealJ2MLovesDestiel/gifts).



> Yes, this is a cheesy adaptation of a Hallmark Christmas movie into Dean/Cas Holiday fluff and smut, and what about it?
> 
> This is my final FicFacers bidding lot, for Jenni, aka [TheRealJ2MLovesDestiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealJ2MLovesDestiel). Originally, this story was something very different, but I just needed to write a fun and hopefully hot happy story right now, and thankfully Jenni found this movie for us to adapt. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy. This story has only 4 chapters and will be completed by Christmas Day. If you're willing to read and comment along I'd be very grateful as I'm still finishing the other two chapters. I've been struggling *very* hard to write because of everything that's happened, and I could definitely use the positive feedback and inspiration. If you don't have anything nice to say, please scroll on, my heart can't take it right now.
> 
> Also, credit where credit is due, I stole Naomi and Zach's characterizations directly from Tor Valen, as it's one of my fave fics and those two are like, the BEST PART. So don't wait for the other shoe to drop with them--it won't, they're great.
> 
> Cas' parents' house is here, if you're interested: [click me!](https://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/529-Ponderosa-Ave_Incline-Village_NV_89451_M29758-98851)

By the third straight day in a row of driving, Castiel’s well-past regretting his decision to road trip home and plowing headlong into resigned despair. Unfortunately, it’s far too late to back out of his best-laid plans now—though if he claimed to not have considered pulling off and hopping a flight at Denver International, he’d be lying. 

Back in Chicago, trapped in a highrise and surrounded on all four sides by glass and steel, the idea of a multi-day road trip sounded so much more appealing. Castiel imagined long stretches of empty road, the sun rising and setting behind purple mountains majesty and over amber waves of grain— _true_ Americana. Quaint roadside diners, charming B&Bs, and endless quiet moments for him to simply _be._ To really delve into his life and where it’s headed, to think about his choices and everything that’s come along with them. 

That fantasy carried only as far as the first six or so hours of driving his luxury rental SUV down the aforementioned open road. Reality sank in somewhere in the middle of Iowa, passing the four hundredth field of cows, all bordering endless highway. That was about the time Castiel’s fascination with the car’s shiny computerized display and all the bells and whistles it came with wore off, and the daunting nature of what he was attempting sunk in.

It wasn’t just the time investment and the distance—in reality, life on the road just isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Certainly, it isn’t anything close to what it was in Castiel’s naive mind. Those quaint B&Bs he dreamed of were nowhere to be found—at least, not when Castiel failed to book them ahead—leaving him with repeat dilapidated options that would make any Motel 6 look like a Ritz Carlton. Soggy carpets, rust-ringed showers, strange smells— _two_ nights in a row. If he hadn’t been so exhausted from driving and needing to be sharp to do it all over again the next day, Castiel would have preferred to crash in the car.

 _Never again._ He’s all too happy to be flying out of the Reno-Tahoe Airport to LAX to kick off his impending tour, and leave this road-trip nonsense behind for good.

 _It’ll all be worth it,_ Castiel tells himself, flexing his tired hands against the warm leather of the steering wheel. He’s just south of the Reno city limits and the sun is _barely_ starting to set. Four-thirty in the dead of December—the light doesn’t last long, even this far west. It’s bright enough to make him squint, though, the curve of the highway sending him what feels like directly into the sun. 

Castiel grits his teeth. _Family,_ he reminds himself. _Time off from work—a whole damn week to_ not _think about podcasts or sappy pining masquerading as something more, or the depressingly persistent myth of “love at first sight.”_ He’s so close now, he can feel it—the warm familiarity of stepping foot inside his childhood home, hugs from his mother and father, the scent of his mother’s apple pie in the air, and his ancient Batman sheets stretched across the mattress of his old bed.

It’s been far too long since Castiel’s been home. He’s just so damn _busy_ —working for himself is a double-edged sword. Turns out, Castiel is quite the demanding boss—who knew? Harsh, but he’s learned the hard way that sometimes all you have is yourself. 

These days, his podcast takes up most of his time. If he’s not writing or recording, then he’s editing, sourcing material, tracking down guests—it’s a never-ending gig. And if it’s not the podcast, it’s the book—writing, meeting with editors and publishers, re-writing, re-tooling—yet another “fun project” Castiel started for kicks and cash that somehow blew up larger than life. His book, at least, was based on episodes of the podcast. Formatting it involved compiling the best of his shared stories and turning them into chapters— _easy money,_ or so the publishers enthused.

Unfortunately, the stories didn’t magically transform into the written word on their own. What was _sold_ to Castiel as “easy money from existing material” wound up in actuality requiring hundreds of hours of tedious transcription busywork. Considering that Castiel doesn’t even _believe_ in (or particularly _like)_ the source material to begin with, spending copious hours _outside_ of his podcast _drowning_ in the topic? A trip home and some serious time off are both incredibly desired and long-overdue.

Maybe if he _bought_ the concept his entire professional life has been spent selling then it wouldn’t be this way, but the fact is, he doesn’t.

Yes, Castiel spends the majority of his life contemplating—and has built an entire career and public personality around—an idea he thinks is laughable. And really, what sane person wouldn’t? “Love at first sight,” is nothing but a convenient excuse used to justify falling into bed with a stranger after the first date, or other impulsive early-relationship decision-making. It’s a trope for romance novels and Hallmark Christmas specials—both of which share one particular trait with said trope: they’re _fictional._

It’s just that—fictional or not—people _love_ to believe in it. Love at first sight, that is, especially when the stories about it involve certain winter celebrations _._ Because of that, they love Castiel’s podcast, “Holiday Love,” too. Enough to listen to it religiously all year-round, long after the lights have been taken down and millions of trees are rotting in landfills. They love sending him e-mails and letters filled with their own stories about instant connection, and they beg him to put them and their significant others in question on the air.

They eat it all up, and if the pre-sales on his book are any indication, it’s positioned to do just as well (if not better) than the podcast that birthed it.

Castiel doesn’t know how he feels about that. What he does is work, it’s a _job,_ and that’s how he’s always justified lying to his listeners, his fans. His personal beliefs—cynical as they may be—don’t preclude him from sharing others’ stories, from encouraging people to listen to and believe in “Holiday Love.” 

But now—with the book releasing and formally launching, Castiel’s publishers are sending him on a big, promotional, cross-country tour to boost sales. As such, Castiel will be signing those books and doing excerpt readings— _l_ _ive and in person._ That’s a whole different ballgame, as compared to being the voice on the other end of the podcast. It’s one thing to misrepresent himself over the air, it’s quite another to look someone straight in the eyes and lie.

The concept doesn’t sit well with him, that’s for sure. Unsurprisingly, his publishers don’t care about that and his signed contract is air-tight. 

To the point, though: this is what Castiel had desperately hoped to think on—to come to terms with—during his long drive from Chicago to Lake Tahoe. Now, as he closes in on the end of the line, it seems as if that hope might have gone up in the same flames Castiel’s fantasies regarding this trip in general did. Almost thirty hours later and he still resents his life’s work, still doesn’t believe in love at first sight—or maybe at all. 

Why should he? He’s certainly never experienced the phenomena for himself, despite dating several perfectly serviceable people in his life. He’s experienced lust—although rare, Castiel suspects he’s somewhere on the demi or ace spectrum, but he’s not incredibly into labels—and great affection, but not romantic _love._ Nothing approaching what he feels for his family, or even the cat he had growing up. 

Based on his own experiences, Castiel is _very_ comfortable declaring that love isn’t an emotion that even _could_ exist at first sight.

As Murphy’s law goes, the shorter on time Castiel gets, the more he’s _finally_ able to think on his dilemma. Hand on the wheel, he’s incredibly lost in thought, so much so that he doesn’t see the rogue piece of metal—likely dropped from some junker’s fender—lying in the middle of the road. Not until it’s too late and swerving only serves to save the tires on the right side of his vehicle, anyway. Somewhat dramatically, a loud popping sound heralds the destruction of the two on the left as Castiel plows headlong over the dangerous trash. 

“Just perfect,” Castiel mutters as the car wobbles unstably over to the emergency shoulder. He cringes at the feel of the cushionless wheels grinding against the cement, thankful he was already traveling in the right lane and that the freeway traffic was light, or the blown tires could have been the least of his problems. 

Throwing the car into park, Castiel pulls out his phone and stops the Bluetooth sync that’s sending his iTunes library through the speakers. He uses the location services to find a tow-truck service nearby, noting options that are out of Reno (closer) and Incline Village (further, but also his destination). There’s one service in particular that catches his eye, since it appears to be associated with a local garage. 

Considering that he has the car for another entire week (and that he didn’t buy the extra insurance) it might be cheaper to deal with repairing the damage on his own. It’ll certainly be more convenient. If he’s losing money either way, better to utilize a local mechanic—who likely knows his parents and will probably cut him a deal—rather than blindly pony up whatever inflated prices the rental company would charge. Those things collectively put up against the Reno shop’s only advantage of being slightly closer make the decision easy.

_Singer Auto Repair and Towing it is,_ Castiel thinks. He exhales a frustrated sigh, quickly dialing the number the search engine suggests and putting the phone to his ear. The man who answers on the other end is sharp and gruff. The way he speaks suggests _he’s_ the one who just suffered the massive inconvenience of having two tires slaughtered on the ass-end of a three-day slog across the U.S. By that point, Castiel isn’t interested in starting the process over, so he deals and prays that Grumpy is only the phone operator and not the driver coming to his rescue.

The wait isn’t long—less than forty-five minutes and a tow truck appears on the other side of the highway, utilizing the emergency turn-around a few hundred yards back to cross the median. That response is impressive, since Incline Village is a good thirty minutes from their current location. Privately, Castiel pats himself on the back for giving Grumpy the benefit of the doubt. 

With his destroyed left side and flashers on, the tow truck finds him easily, pulling smoothly in front of Castiel before backing up into place. While he was waiting, Castiel packed his personal items into his bag—the car is coming with, so he needn’t worry about the rest of his luggage, but some things shouldn’t be left behind. His laptop, for instance, since it contains his entire livelihood, all of his editing software, and several unfinished podcast episodes. 

Slinging the strap over his shoulder, Castiel exits the car, wincing at the twinge in his back and the ache in his legs from being seated for so long. He stretches languidly, lacing his fingers together and pressing both hands to the sky until _several_ joints pop. It’s mild today—for Utah in December, but especially for Castiel, who’s become quite used to the horrifically cold Chicago winters.

Fifty-five degrees a few days before Christmas? Near-tropical, as far as he’s concerned.

As such, Castiel didn’t bother donning his jacket prior to exiting the vehicle, and he lost his ever-present dress button-down two days and thirteen hundred miles ago, somewhere outside of Illinois. As he stretches, the cold feels refreshing, a relief after the stale interior of the vehicle. The slight chill rushing over his abdomen suggests that his t-shirt has ridden up, but Castiel doesn’t think anything of that until he sighs and drops his arms, shaking out his limbs before turning to greet the tow-truck driver.

When he does, the first thing that registers is _green._ Bright, sparkling green eyes, as deep and verdant as anything Castiel’s ever seen in nature. It’s strange—the butterflies that burst to life in his stomach, the way the world seems to come to a screeching halt in its tracks—that initial first glance is like nothing Castiel has ever experienced during the entirety of his existence. 

The moment passes and then Castiel is abruptly reminded by a passing semi that they’re standing on the side of a busy highway. Not exactly out of harm’s way, not exactly an ideal place to have a _moment_ with a complete stranger. The world resumes turning and Castiel’s left blinking and confused. The tow truck driver seems to be experiencing much of the same, flushing slightly as he finishes exiting his truck (he’d stopped with one boot on the ground and one still in the footwell—what _was_ that?!), slamming the door in his wake. 

As he approaches, Castiel can’t help but take notice that the eyes aren’t the only thing this man has going on—the rest of him is just as beautiful. Objectively so, starting with his lightly tanned pale skin and the smattering of freckles sprinkled across his face. Those things suggest that he works outside at least part of the time, even in winter. His canvas jacket doesn’t hide that he’s also fit and well-muscled—likely the kind that comes from hard work and not the gym, if Castiel had to guess. 

To top it all off, he’s sporting a kind smile and a bow-legged swagger that both exude an easy confidence and obvious _happiness._ His unapologetic presence tells Castiel that this is the sort of man who is _very_ comfortable with himself. Castiel knows the type—fearless, unrelenting about what they want and chasing after it. In lieu of what just happened between them—whether Castiel understands it or not—that suddenly feels very daunting, and his mouth goes dry. 

“Hey there!” The man greets him cheerfully, the outside corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles. He’s gripping what appears to be a work-order in his hand, squinting down at it before gesturing towards Castiel’s SUV. “Castiel Novak, right?” He looks up almost expectantly, and perhaps Castiel is imagining things, but it almost seems as if there’s something _more_ to his question than what’s obvious.

Castiel nods, unable to put his finger on why he’s feeling so off-kilter. The cars whizzing by almost perilously close aren’t doing much to help, either. “Cas,” he offers, trying to appear friendly, casual, and _not_ weirdly apprehensive, just in case he’s reading into this. “Thank you for coming so quickly. This is—such a disaster. The last thing I needed right now. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you too much.” 

The man’s eyes narrow slightly and he bites his lower lip, looking Castiel over appraisingly. Castiel’s _just_ about to man up and ask if there’s something wrong when the guy seems to shrug the entire thing off, almost visibly. “Nah,” the man says brightly, moving past Castiel to check out the damage done to the tires. Whistling, he fingers the shredded rubber before straightening up again and brushing dirty hands off on his jeans. “No worries, Cas. That’s what we’re here for. I’m Dean, by the way.” 

Dean stretches out his hand in offering and Castiel takes it reflexively. His stomach flips. Dean’s fingers are calloused but his palm is warm and dry, his grip firm, and the butterflies return to Castiel’s abdomen in full force. _What_ is going _on_ with him today? The feel of Dean’s hand in his own distracts him so much that he forgets to let go, glancing up hastily to find Dean smiling down at him in amusement. He winks as he takes his hand back gently.

“You can get in, if you want,” he says, and Castiel just blinks back at him, not understanding.

“I—what?” 

Dean’s grin widens, clearly all-too aware of the effect he’s having on Castiel. “Into my truck,” he says slowly, deliberately, and now it’s Castiel’s turn to flush. “You can hang out there, while I change the back tire and get her hooked up.”

“Right,” he mumbles, turning on his heel to beeline for the tow truck before he can say or do anything else embarrassing. 

“There’s hot cocoa in the cupholder,” Dean calls after him. “Help yourself, handsome.” 

Castiel walks away that much faster. 

Whatever he was expecting, the interior of Dean’s truck isn’t it. It’s _decked out—_ Christmas lights stapled across the ceiling and down around the windows, under the dash. A gingerbread man air freshener hanging from the rearview, holiday music coming through the speakers. Settling into his seat, Castiel does a double-take when he glances at the side mirror—upon taking a closer look, the string lights actually run _all_ over the truck, including up and down the towing equipment. 

Dean must _really_ like Christmas. 

Bewildered, Castiel next investigates the promise of hot chocolate. He’s usually more of a coffee hound, but truthfully, after the day he’s had, a nice cup of cocoa sounds quite relaxing. Just as Dean promised, there’s a giant (full) thermos wedged into the cup holder and a clean travel mug sitting empty beside it. 

Castiel pours himself a generous helping and settles back to wait. The chocolate is delicious, silky and rich, and the quiet holiday music is pleasant in the background. All in all, this could have gone a lot worse. Exhaling any lingering stress, Castiel takes the opportunity to casually glance into the mirror and watch Dean at work. The man is quick and efficient, appearing to whistle to himself as he crouches to unfasten and refasten lugnuts with the ease of someone who’s done that particular task a countless number of times. 

From the enclosed safety of the cab, Castiel sips and sizes him up, trying desperately to figure out what exactly had passed between them. _Lust,_ he eventually settles on, embracing the coil of heat that settles low and deep in his belly when Dean does literally anything in his line of sight. The dying afternoon sun catches the side of his face, illuminating his features softly— _stunning,_ like a work of art _._ Then there’s the tempting twist of his hips, the _sinful_ curves of his body, and those gorgeous, plush lips—

Feeling warm, Castiel coughs into his hand like he’s been caught and looks away, focusing on the passing cars instead of perving on his tow-truck driver like a desperate creep. 

Before long, Dean’s climbing back into the driver’s seat, and it’s then that Castiel realizes his cup is empty, which is absolutely terrible news. Not only because the drink was good, but because now he won’t have the luxury of a distraction barrier between himself and Dean. Nothing to fiddle with or take long sips from for plausible deniability of awkward silences or worse. All nerves, Castiel smiles at Dean anyway, holding up the mug before setting it back into the cupholder.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “That was most welcome.” 

“Hey, no prob, Cas,” Dean replies warmly, adjusting various levers and dials on the dash before throwing the truck into gear. “Oh, almost forgot. It’s dark enough now.” Dean reaches down by his left calf, presumably flipping a switch, because the Christmas lights—both inside the vehicle and out—all flicker to life at once. “Yeah, baby!” 

Caught off guard, Castiel’s head snaps in Dean’s direction, an automatic response to his companion’s excitement. Even in the quickly-deepening dusk, he can see that Dean’s face has lit up as brightly as his little mobile display. It’s endearing, especially the way he looks back at Castiel with both glee and hope, clearly thrilled with himself. Unable to resist, Castiel cracks a smile and nods approvingly.

“It’s very...Christmas-y,” he offers, knowing it’s a weak response. 

Dean doesn’t seem to mind though, nodding enthusiastically as he navigates them back into the flow of traffic. “They don’t call me ‘Mr. Christmas’ for nothing,” he says brightly.

“They—and you like that?” 

Barking a laugh, Dean tips his head to wink at Castiel and honestly, Castiel’s not sure when the butterflies turned into bats, but it’s getting awfully crowded down there. “Why wouldn’t I? Christmas is awesome, dude.” 

“I never much saw the appeal,” Castiel murmurs, turning his attention out the window. The truck _does_ look ridiculous, even from the inside, but it’s fun, too. Just like Dean himself, Castiel finds the whole thing oddly intriguing and perhaps because of that, charming. “Although, I’m grateful for the excuse to take a vacation and to see my family.”

“Hmm,” Dean hums. “Well, sorry for bein’ forward, but I saw your drop-off address, and I guess there’s no time like the present to tell you that I know your folks.” Raising an eyebrow, Castiel shifts his body back towards Dean as he continues talking. “Just sayin’. I know you’re not Jewish and you don’t celebrate Kwanzaa, so what’s your beef with Christmas, hmm? What did Christmas ever do to you?” 

Socially inept as Castiel might be at times, he’s (ninety-nine percent) sure that Dean is teasing, so he simply rolls his eyes and shrugs. At first, he thinks he might let it go at that, sensing that Dean will probably drop the schtick. But then he catches Dean’s eye and the bats flap their wings, and Castiel—well, he has a rare surge of bravery and extroversion combined. 

“It’s my job,” he confesses, surprising even himself. “I—I have a podcast and it’s holiday-themed. I spend almost every day of the year thinking and talking about the holidays—mostly Christmas, people find it particularly magical—so when the real thing rolls around…” He trails off and shrugs. 

Dean purses his lips and nods thoughtfully, like he’s considering the weight of Castiel’s words. “That makes sense,” he replies easily. “Still, you said something ‘bout needing a vacation? Maybe you just haven’t been experiencing Christmas the right way.” 

Half of Castiel wants to tell Dean to keep his eyes on the road—seriously, it’s unnerving how comfortable the man is driving while looking mostly at him—but another part of him is tongue-tied, staring back. “Maybe,” he finally says, and Dean quirks a half-smile, seemingly satisfied with that.

Dean does, actually, watch the road for several quiet minutes before piping up again. Next to him, Castiel plays with the strap on his bag, picks at the cuticles of his fingers. He can’t remember the last time he felt _anything_ approaching this level of attraction to a stranger, or remotely begin to sort out what about Dean is causing him to feel it now. When Dean speaks, a weird spark of excitement thrills through Castiel at simply hearing his voice again, and also has him wondering if there was something “special” in that hot chocolate. 

This is just— _not_ normal, not him.

“So, road trip huh?” Thankfully, Dean seems oblivious to Castiel’s bizarre (possibly creepy) interest, chatting away with one hand on the wheel and the other resting casually at his side. “Gotta say, I’m a little jealous, Cas. Used to do that kind of stuff all the time with my baby brother. Back when he was in college, on summer breaks and stuff. Just him, me, Baby—that’s my other ride, she’s _much_ prettier—and the open road.” Dean sighs wistfully, his smile turning a little sad at the corners.

“But, you know. Kid grew up, got himself a fancy job and a hot wife. Big money ticket in L.A., two point five kids, and a vacation home out here on the water. Damn,” Dean swears. He shakes his head, but he looks proud. “Never would have guessed back when he was a gangly, pimply son-of-a-bitch who took our adopted sister to prom ‘cause he couldn’t get a real date. These days? I couldn’t afford to rent out his garage.”

It should be strange, having a deep conversation like this with someone he just met, but Castiel finds himself fascinated. He turns more fully towards Dean, eager to hear more. “Your brother doesn’t let you live in his house while he’s away?”

Dean snorts. “Cas, I can’t count the number of times he’s tried to get me to move into that place. Huge, five bedrooms, right on the water—fuckin’ dream home. That’s not how we grew up, mind you. The two of us—hell, there were plenty of nights we were lucky to have a roof over our heads and he’s got a _guest house_ he doesn’t even use. Thing is though, Cas, I raised that kid. Changed his diapers, made him mac’n’cheese, tucked him in at night. That shit is nothing if not humbling. I don’t do charity, not even from Sam. _Especially_ from Sam. I’d live in a box before I’d take his handouts, you know?” 

Before Castiel can open his mouth to answer, Dean’s moving on, reaching out to slap Castiel’s shoulder like they’re old friends. “Anyway,” he continues, sniffling and wrinkling his nose like he’s _not_ the level of emotional he very clearly is, but Castiel lets it go. It’s not his place to push. “Back to the road trip—I bet you stayed in some kickass motels, huh?” 

Castiel blinks. That’s...not what he was expecting, and the change of subject throws him for a loop. “Um...I am not sure that ‘kickass’ is the descriptive term I would use. Perhaps ‘revolting’? ‘Nauseating?’” 

The face Dean makes actually has Castiel stifling a laugh. Dean looks _so_ unbelievably offended on the slandered motel’s behalf. “Dude,” he says in disbelief, “You’re breaking my heart. Shitty motels are the _best._ They have character! Seventies carpet, eighties drapes? Plus, you never know what you might find left behind. Diamond tennis bracelet in a drawer, five bucks in a bible, unopened bottle of whiskey in the fridge. Half a sandwich. A sock.”

Unbidden, a laugh bursts from Castiel’s throat. “That started off promising.” 

Dean grins back, and Castiel—well, he feels _something_.

The ride isn’t terribly long, but Castiel finds himself wishing it wouldn’t end quite as soon as it does. The conversation between him and Dean is easy and flows without pause. He learns that Dean lives in an apartment inside of a complex that’s owned by his uncle and aunt, the same uncle that owns the garage and towing company he works for. Apparently, they rent him the unit for pennies on the dollar in exchange for Dean’s handyman services around the complex. 

“It’s all good living basically rent-free until you’re awake snaking some stranger’s toilet at 4 a.m.,” Dean tells him, but he doesn’t sound bitter, just amused. In turn, Castiel shares more detail about his podcast, and Dean seems to find it hilarious that he’s built his entire life around a concept he doesn’t even believe exists.

While he’s dying to see his family, pulling up to the curb outside of his childhood home isn’t the tremendous sigh of relief Castiel thought it would be. It’s been a long time since he’s enjoyed someone else’s company this way, and Castiel is terribly rusty when it comes to conveying that sort of thing. He gets the feeling that Dean would be entirely open to seeing him again, but at the same time, the strength of his own interest is nearly overwhelming. 

Enough so that the closer they get to their destination, Castiel finds himself beginning to withdraw, half-hoping to be let off the hook. The other, traitorous half of him disagrees, but Castiel’s always been a logical, sensible person. While the ride has been nice, he knows what he needs to do.

As Dean brings the truck to a stop, Castiel gazes out the window and smiles. 

The house sitting carved into the downward-sloping hillside is extremely similar to the one Dean described that his brother owns. It’s a monster directly overlooking the water, with tons of bedrooms and bathrooms, even a theater room and a library. His parents purchased it nearly thirty years prior, right before Castiel turned five. In fact, one of Castiel’s first clear memories involves standing next to a stack of boxes, staring up at that same heavy wooden front door. 

He turns his attention back to Dean, who (now that they’re stationary) is looking at him openly. His expression is both unabashedly interested and curious yet again, and Castiel _has_ to ask. “What?” he probes, but Dean just shakes his head. 

There’s a moment of silence, and then, “Cas, I was wondering—”

“This has been lovely,” Castiel cuts him off, opening the truck door and stepping out before Dean can continue. “Thank you for such a comfortable ride. If you don’t mind, I’m just going to grab my bags from the SUV before you take off.” The look on Dean’s face is so obviously disappointed and crestfallen, Castiel thinks he might as well have slapped him. It’s only there for a second, though, and then Dean’s back to smiling. 

“Sure, Cas,” he says. “Let me help.” 

“You don’t—” Castiel starts, but Dean’s out of the truck before he can protest further. It’s slightly cooler down here by the lake, a stiff breeze blowing in off of the water that makes Castiel shiver and shrug on his jacket before following Dean to the SUV. They unload the bags in silence and even though Castiel tries to beg Dean off yet again, he insists on grabbing one of the three suitcases and following him to the front porch. 

“Damn, Cas,” Dean huffs, setting the heavy case down and using the wheels instead of the handle halfway there. “Thought you were only in town for a week. The hell did you bring, rocks?”

“I’m going on a cross-country tour from here,” Castiel replies defensively. “Over a month away from home, I suppose you’d travel lighter for that?” 

Dean shrugs, making a noise of relief as he unloads the bag by the door. “I dunno, one big ass duffle used to do me just fine for a couple of weeks. Then again, you probably only wear your underwear once.” His eyes twinkle, and Castiel can’t entirely decide whether he’s joking. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to, because right then the front door swings wide, revealing a _very_ enthusiastic Naomi Novak in a _very_ ugly Christmas sweater. “Castiel!” she enthuses, stepping over his duffle to drag him in for a tight hug. The red jingle-bell masquerading as a nose on the embroidered Rudolph that’s decorating his mother’s shirt digs painfully into Castiel’s sternum.

“Mom,” he grumbles, wiggling petulantly but secretly relishing the attention. His mother’s always been warm and affectionate, and he’s missed being fussed over the past few years. The house, the hug, the apple pie smell already wafting out the front door—it all reminds Castiel that this visit is _long_ overdue. He expected the welcome, but he didn’t expect what came next.

“And Dean! I have the ladder and the lights all ready and waiting for you in the garage,” Naomi says happily, relinquishing her hold on Castiel to repeat the whole performance with Castiel’s new acquaintance. It’s somewhat baffling to watch his mother hug Dean and kiss his cheek, holding him at arm’s length before pinching his cheek. The pencil holding Naomi’s hair in a messy bun threatens to slip as she glances over her shoulder at her son. “Dean freelances his skills in exterior illumination—among other things.”

 _Other things?_ Castiel thinks faintly, raising his eyebrows. _Alright, then._

“You _are_ going to be back to do the lights tonight, aren’t you? You know that we’re so grateful to you Dean, for picking up Castiel, but you know I had my heart set on him coming home to see the house all lit up when he arrived.” 

“I’m really not—” Castiel starts, but he’s trampled.

“There’s apple pie in it for you,” Naomi pleads, and Dean visibly relents.

“Anything for you, Mrs. Novak,” he intones, that cocky but charming grin plastered across his face once more. “I just need to go change into my uniform and grab a pager, deal? My duty shift starts at six. No reason I can’t respond from here, though, if something happens.” 

“Wonderful,” Naomi cheers, clapping her hands together before heading back across the threshold and yelling loudly into the interior of the house. “Zach! Your son is here! Michael? Michael where are you, your brother needs help with his bags.” Neither of them answer ( _smart)_ , so Naomi wanders off, presumably to rectify that situation.

Castiel’s eyes follow his mother for a moment before turning back to Dean, incredulous. “I thought you said you were a handyman and a tow truck driver? And a part-time mechanic? _And_ the local rent-a-Santa?”

“I am,” Dean replies, once again looking entirely amused by Castiel. “I’m a lot of things, Cas. Who knows, might even be something in there you find interesting enough to give me a second chance.” 

“A second—” Castiel narrows his eyes. “Dean, I’m—I’m leaving in a few days, I—”

“To hang out,” Dean adds innocently, eyes wide, like he couldn’t possibly fathom how Castiel misunderstood that.

“Uh huh,” Castiel replies skeptically. At some point, Dean has wandered closer, now standing nearly nose to nose with him. The air between them is _charged,_ and Castiel finds himself swallowing hard. For a moment, he thinks it’s possible he’s about to be _kissed._ At the last second though, as the wind picks up and his brother and father’s footsteps become louder on the steps inside, Dean winks, bites his lip, and steps away.

“Catch you later, Cas,” he says softly. Just in time, Naomi appears in the doorway and Dean tips his chin at her, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he backs up across the lawn. “Back in a bit,” he calls out. 

Naomi waves as Michael squeezes unceremoniously past her and out the door. “Brother,” he says, pulling Castiel into a sort of stiff hug and clapping him on the back. 

“Hello, Michael,” Castiel tells him. “How is Anna?”

“Here,” Michael replies. “Thirty-six weeks yesterday, so she’s relaxing downstairs. She’ll be glad to see you.” Never one for emotional or drawn-out interactions, he takes one of Castiel’s bags and disappears inside, just as their father joins them.

“Castiel!” Zachariah jovially exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. “Welcome home, son.” Castiel swiftly finds himself squished between his father and his mother, and he tries his best to focus on the heartfelt family reunion. Unfortunately, his attention is stolen by the tow truck’s motor roaring to life and Dean’s subsequent departure down the street. Something feels strange inside his chest, and Castiel can’t begin to parse out what all of these entirely foreign _feelings_ might mean. 

“Such a nice boy,” Naomi says knowingly, following Castiel’s gaze as he stares after the truck’s vanishing tail lights. “He’s single, you know.” 

“Mom,” Castiel replies, exasperated. He takes the duffle from his father and the handle of the other case and moves past them before anyone can say anything else.

“What?” Castiel can hear his mother still talking as he descends the stairs to his bedroom. The house is a bit backward—built into the hillside, so the main living space is on the top floor with the bedrooms underneath—but Castiel lived here for so long that now, going _upstairs_ to sleep feels strange. “It’s not meddling if they both want it, right? I’m _helping._ ” 

“Too right,” his father agrees. “You’re so smart, darling.” 

Castiel rolls his eyes so hard he nearly misses a step. It’s good to be home.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Anna schools Castiel on his own history, Dean falls off a roof, a movie recreation in the front yard, two idiots go to a bar and then need help getting home. Everyone's parents are nosy af.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holiday Love: one; Castiel: zero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some low-level mature content in this one, but nothing explicit.

Anna is three times as wide as Castiel’s ever seen her, and he doesn’t remotely manage to stifle the laugh that bubbles up at her expense. It’s a good thing they’ve known each other as long as they have or that might be offensive, but truth be told, Anna was _his_ best friend long before Michael stole her away. The number of times she’s laughed at his misfortune are uncountable, because that’s what best friends do. Fair is fair.

Speaking of fairness, describing his brother as “stealing her away” might be harsh. After all, thanks to Michael, Anna is legally his family forever and Castiel is getting a niece. Still, sibling rivalry dies hard and he _was_ here first. Castiel remembers everything about his childhood with Anna fondly—from riding the bus together for the first time, to the way she accompanied him to his junior prom. By that point, he’d known that he didn’t want to attend with a girl but wasn’t yet ready to go public with a boy. Anna was the perfect excuse, and more than happy to play along. 

By senior year, though, Anna was with Michael, and Castiel was left to die mad about it.

Today, looking the way she does? Revenge is sweet. 

“One hundred percent proof that you chose the wrong brother,” Castiel scoffs as Anna releases him from a hug that he has to scoot to one side of her belly in order to properly obtain. “I never would have caused you to look like this.”

Anna laughs, head tossed back and one hand resting on her abdomen—she’s glowing. With a groan, she collapses down into where she was settled prior to him showing up—one of the overstuffed chairs framing the library’s picture window. The view beyond is stunning and Castiel takes a moment to admire the sunset reflecting off of the water. Just like every room and balcony in the house, the library looks straight out over the sparking surface of northern Lake Tahoe, plus the foliage and the mountain range surrounding it. 

Suppressing a smile, Castiel takes the seat opposite his friend. He sighs happily as he sinks into the soft cushions, closing his eyes for a moment just to take it all in. Behind him and to his left, the library’s fireplace crackles, the smell of real burning wood transporting Castiel back to his childhood like the magical snap of two fingers. 

“Long trip?” Anna probes, poking at his shin with one house-slipper-covered toe. When Castiel opens his eyes, he finds her sipping from a glass of lemonade and looking back at him knowingly. “Heard the end was interesting, at least.” 

That’s what he gets for unpacking before saying hello. Gossip travels fast in this house. Castiel deflects. “Yes, well. Breaking down thirty miles from home after three days of excruciating travel isn’t what I’d call ‘interesting,’ but your taste has always been terrible.” 

“No,” Anna scowls, leaning forward and then thinking better of it. She makes do with using the armrests to reposition herself onto one hip. “Dumbass. Not the car— _Dean.”_ The way she’s staring at him is suddenly reminiscent of the way _Dean_ himself looked at Castiel when they first met on the highway, and _what,_ exactly, is going on here?

“Listen,” Castiel sputters, feeling like a bird with his feathers fluffing in frustrated indignation. “I don’t know what kind of scheming bullcrap Mom has put you up to, but knock it off, Anna. While Dean seems like a very nice man, you all can’t _really_ expect for me to connect and take up with a perfect stranger just like that? First of all, I’m here to see _you,_ you ungrateful brat. Second, I’m _leaving._ I didn’t come here to date, I came for Christmas.”

“Oh, come off it, Cassie,” Anna says with a giggle, kicking him again playfully. “Alright, we’ll do this your way. She straightens up and starts ticking items off via her fingers, mimicking Castiel’s mannerisms _and_ voice (not well). “First of all, no one is _scheming. You_ broke your car, _you_ hired the company that Dean works for, not us.” 

Opening his mouth to protest, Castiel realizes that he does, in fact, have to give her that one. “Proceed,” he grumbles, folding his arms across his chest.

“Second, _you’re_ the ungrateful brat, brat. Everyone in this house just wants to see you happy, Cas. You know, unlike you, Michael and I never left this town. Never left this _house._ And yeah, your parents rock and getting to live rent-free so we can save up for our own place is amazing, but if you think _this_ is scheming, you should try living with her as an adult. It’s painful, okay? I’m pretty sure she replaced my birth control with tic-tacs. But Cas—on the flip side, I hear almost daily how much your mother loves and misses you. She talks about that, talks about how she worries that you’re lonely, that you work too much, that you don’t have any fun or anyone to take care of you. Cas.” 

Anna pauses and looks down her nose at him quite patronizingly, but Castiel’s already feeling half his size, shrinking back into his seat. “I understand,” he mutters.

“If she wants to play matchmaker or whatever, would you just let her? For me?” Now Anna’s doubling down, turning on the puppy-dog eyes, and Castiel’s powerless against _that._

“I’ve been told to never deny a pregnant woman something she wants, under penalty of having my scrotum stretched over my head. Please don’t,” he adds, somewhat horrified at that mental picture and also Anna’s known enjoyment of torturing him for kicks.

“Pass,” Anna assures him, making a face. “Hard pass. But back to the topic—you know, I’m serious about you humoring your mom, but also—you could do a lot worse than Dean Winchester.” Finally seeming to locate a comfortable position in her chair, Anna relaxes and sips from her drink, scouring him critically with her eyes.

“He’s a complete stranger,” Castiel complains, picking at a loose thread in the thigh of his jeans and feeling like a broken record. “Anna, I don’t—” He doesn’t get to finish, because Anna cuts him off.

“Wait—hold up—you weren’t kidding about the stranger thing? Seriously? I thought you were making a joke!” Confused, Castiel just stares, waiting patiently for his sister-in-law to elaborate. “You—Cas, Dean Winchester is _not_ a stranger. You honestly don’t remember him?”

At Castiel’s non-reaction and what he assumes is an extremely blank look, Anna makes a disbelieving noise and heaves herself out of the chair. From her expression, Castiel can tell this must be something pretty important, because movement is clearly unpleasant. Waddling to the other end of the library, she grimaces and crouches down. One hand grips the side of a built-in bookcase for balance and the other does its best to support her lower back.

“I could—”

“If you offer to do this for me, God help you, Castiel. I’m pregnant, not broken,” Anna snaps at him before he can even finish the sentence. Hands in the air, Castiel shuts his mouth, smart enough to know when to back off, at least. A minute later, Anna straightens up (with a not-small amount of difficulty that Castiel definitely isn’t entertained by) huffing and puffing her way back to the chair, this time with a slim book in hand. She flops down and begins rifling through its pages with focused intent. 

Unsure of what else to do, Castiel just waits quietly. Eventually, she hands the book over. Up close, Castiel recognizes it as one of their high school yearbooks, opened partway to a random collage of pictures. Anna stabs her pointer finger at a photograph right in the middle of the page. “There,” she says triumphantly.

Sure enough, in sharpened grayscale, there sits a teenaged Castiel making _moon_ eyes at what is undeniably a _ridiculously_ adorable young Dean Winchester. Same bright eyes, same lovely features and charming smile, yes—teenage Castiel certainly thought so, too.

He frowns. “Surely, I’d recall…” Castiel glances up at Anna and then back down at the page, peering closer. “He doesn’t look—”

“I’m certain he didn’t even know you were alive,” Anna tells him gleefully. She’s right, if Dean’s distracted expression in the picture is any indication. “Well, _then,_ anyway _._ He was so popular—on the football team, he dated that Cassie chick? The cheerleader?—and you were such a _dork._ You used to wax poetic—”

“I truly don’t remember a thing about the man—”

“Until he dropped out. You might remember that.”

A lightbulb goes on in Castiel’s head. That definitely triggers _something._ He rubs his temple and wracks his brain, “ _Oh,_ John Winchester! There was a—a car accident? His younger brother—” _Sam,_ the lawyer with the house on the lake, how could Castiel not have made the connection? Well, to be fair, it’s been the better part of two decades, so there is that. _Still._ Vague pieces of his memory begin floating back, but Castiel definitely doesn’t remember pining away for Dean.

Anna nods, settling back into her chair with satisfaction. Her manicured nails get folded together over her stomach and she chews her lip. “Got it in one. Mother died when they were young, Dean dropped out of school to take care of Sam after John passed. Don’t judge him by it, though—”

“Judge him? For selflessly putting his brother first despite his young age and almost certainly having his own trauma? Who do you take me for, Anna?” 

She waves him off, used to Castiel’s excessive seriousness and drama. He bites back a smile, glancing down again at the glossy page in order to hide it. If that gives him another moment to stare at Dean’s pretty, wrinkle-free face, that’s just a bonus. It really is good to see his oldest friend, good to be _home._

“He’s really come a long way,” Anna continues vaguely, but Castiel knows her too well to let _that_ tone slide _._

“Oh, Anna, you didn’t.”

“It was _one_ night,” she replies defensively, wide-eyed and innocent. “That first summer you stayed away at the University of Chicago instead of coming home, and Michael and I were on a break. Remember? Michael was...” She trails off. “He had that thing with Adam.” She narrows her eyes. “You know, I still wonder about them sometimes.” 

Unable to hold it in, Castiel bursts out laughing, snapping the yearbook shut. “Michael’s flexible sexuality aside, I cannot believe that you’re attempting to sell me on your sloppy seconds.” 

“Listen,” Anna protests, rolling her eyes. “It’s not—Like I said, you could do way worse than Dean Winchester, or haven’t you noticed? He’s gorgeous, he’s sexy, he’s _great_ in bed—”

“It’s like you don’t hear a word I say.”

“He’s _kind,_ he’s successful—Cas, the whole town loves him.”

“I thought he lived in his uncle’s apartment complex rent-free.”

Castiel’s not sure he’s ever seen Anna’s demeanor change so fast, her head whipping up sharply and her face stony. “Since when did you become the kind of person who judges others like that?” 

“I’m not,” Castiel whines, hating himself for it. Sensing this badgering is going to continue, he gets up and makes his way to the small dry bar next to the fireplace. There’s a decanter filled with good whiskey sitting on top alongside several glasses, so Castiel helps himself to two solid fingers and takes a big swig. Instead of sitting back down, he moves to stand next to the window, taking in the beautiful (if darkening) view of the lake and the mountains beyond.

Anna pipes up again from behind him. “That night we hooked up, we got crazy drunk at the Roadhouse first. Dean’s aunt owns the place now, by the way, he bartends there part-time.”

“What doesn’t he do?” Castiel mutters at the glass. 

Anna ignores him. “He was drinking because of Sam. Baby brother, entire world revolved around him, just got accepted to the college of his dreams, two hundred plus miles away.”

“Ah.”

“It was _solace,_ ” Anna explains. “But not the point. He told me about their lives, what he’d been through raising Sam. How he got his GED trying to set a good example for the kid, how his only goal was to show Sam he could still do anything he wanted to do. And then he laughed—said he must’ve done his job a little too well, because Sam believed it, made it happen. Cas,” she says quietly, and something about her tone makes him turn, curious. “He’s a really good guy. I think he’s maybe...a little lonelier than he likes to let on. Maybe why he keeps so busy.”

Castiel wrinkles his nose. “And what am I, the loser-whisperer? You said he didn’t want anything to do with me in high school.”

Smirking, Anna shrugs. “According to mom, he seems to want a _lot_ to do with you now. What do you care? You weren’t ready then, anyway.” 

Opening his mouth to explain that carrying his bags to the door was _hardly_ indicative of interest and also, _he’s leaving,_ Castiel’s cut off by a thumping sound overhead. The strange noise is immediately followed by an ominous clatter that sounds suspiciously like someone about to fall off the roof. Horrified, Castiel turns towards the window just in time to see Dean Winchester come tumbling over the edge, smacking into the gutter pipe as he goes. 

Dean’s fall ends with him hanging upside down, swaying slowly in the top half of the big picture window. Castiel’s open mouth snaps shut and he tips his head to the side, feeling quite incredulous as Dean spots him and responds by calmly flashing his widest smile. 

“Hey,” Dean calls out, the sound of his voice somewhat muffled by the pane of glass separating them. Baffled, Castiel raises one hand and waves somewhat stiffly in return.

Still upside down, Dean waves back heartily before grunting and pushing off the side of the house, flipping himself right-side-up in one fluid motion. He’s wearing a _harness,_ thank God, and he clamors back up onto the roof like nothing happened at all. Once he’s gone, Castiel looks over his shoulder, gaping at Anna in disbelief. “Seriously?”

She just shrugs, smiling around a sip of her drink. “Well, he’s not boring,” she tells him. 

Another thump on the roof makes Castiel jump. 

***

When Dean’s done with the lights, Castiel’s mother herds them all outside like this is a scene from “Chevy Chase’s Christmas Vacation.” Michael with his eggnog, Zachariah in his bathrobe and slippers—the way this is going, Castiel half expects his weird cousin Gabriel to come rattling down the street in a dilapidated green motorhome. Actually, he almost wishes that was the case, since there aren’t any forced romance storylines in that movie. Just hilarious holiday disasters and a lot of drinking. 

With that thought in mind, Castiel glances down at the glass in his hand—it’s not his first and that’s all that needs to be said—as he steps out into the darkened cold. _Halfway there_.

 _Somehow_ (not suspicious at all) he winds up standing next to Dean as Incline Village’s apparent jack-of-all-trades brings two extension cords together, fully leaning into the role of an extremely proud Chevy Chase. 

When the lights turn on, Castiel has to admit, Dean did do a fantastic job. The house looks beautiful—tidily lit from top to bottom with thousands of white twinkle lights that manage to look both classy and festive. A far better outcome than when his father would attempt the same during Castiel’s childhood, and with much less strife and swearing to go along with it. 

Everyone “Ooh”s and “Ahh”s, thanking and congratulating Dean in equal measure, while Dean blushes and pretends to fiddle with arranging the cords _just so_ on the ground. With all the whiskey in his system, Castiel can at _least_ admit to himself that he wants to watch the man do it, do almost anything at all, however mundane. The butterflies ( _bats)_ return in full force any time Dean so much as looks his way, and it’s getting downright impossible to ignore. 

_Fine_ —he can _also_ admit to being _curious_ about this man he supposedly used to crush on, who has apparently turned into quite the spectacular human being—in so many different ways.

But that doesn’t change reality. 

At the end of the day, Castiel is still leaving town in one week. He still has a job waiting for him and a long, cross-country tour in his immediate future. Even if— _even if—_ it could never be anything more than a one-night-stand, a brief _fling_ at best, and Castiel isn’t certain he wants to open that door right now. 

The temperature has fallen drastically over the last few hours, and the grass crunching under Castiel’s feet proves it. He shivers, and takes that as his cue to make his excuses to flee back inside. He’s _tired—_ and anxious to sleep in a bed that’s both clean and comfortable and definitely not a bedbug resort with him as the all-you-can-eat breakfast included. Just the mere thought of laying down on his old mattress floods Castiel’s body with abject relief.

“—just can’t thank you enough, Dean. Exceptional work, as usual.” Naomi gushes her appreciation while simultaneously pressing a giant tupperware into Dean’s hands. Castiel can see from where he’s standing (despite the dark and the distance) that there’s an envelope underneath the pie-filled plastic. Naturally, this is how things are done in polite society, where the help is also a close family friend. 

Castiel bites back a smirk, catching Dean’s eye as he very obviously does the same. Naomi continues on, unaware or more likely, pretending to be. “So, when shall we meet about food for the party?”

It takes Dean a second to reply to Castiel’s mother, caught up as he is in staring at her son. Reflexes and awareness dulled slightly by the alcohol, Castiel doesn’t even realize the way their gazes linger until Dean is tearing his away, leaving Castiel to flounder like an idiot. He drinks his drink. 

“Uh,” Dean fumbles. “Whenever’s good for—no, wait—I have to shop, so, tomorrow or the day after?” 

“Why don’t you just stop by?” Naomi tells him, patting his arm affectionately before heading for the house. “Just come on in, you know you’re like family. Our casa es su casa,” she declares, waving her arms wildly. Castiel narrows his eyes—perhaps he isn’t the only one that’s been drinking. 

“So,” Dean says brightly, as Castiel abruptly realizes that his family is gone and he and Dean are _alone_ , _again. Those sneaky—_ “Any plans for tonight?” 

Flustered, Castiel panics and freezes. “I—I just thought I’d sit inside quietly,” he says flatly before taking off at a near-run for the door. The remnants of his drink slosh violently over the sides of his glass as he hurries. He doesn’t give Dean a chance to reply.

Less than ten minutes later, Castiel’s lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling and cursing both himself and his entire family. Anna’s expectant look when he came back inside and his mother’s hopeful one had him scowling and making excuses about being tired. They were _true,_ yes, but excuses all the same. Even his dad calling after him, trying to entice him back for a board game in front of a roaring fire, couldn’t budge Castiel’s sour mood. 

He feels somewhat bad about that now. After all, these people are his _family_ and they’re only trying to help. They care about him, and if he’s not going to take their (admittedly aggressive) encouragement towards (ill-fated and short-lived, if anything) romance, he _should_ have the decency to not take his petulance out on them. Sighing, Castiel pushes to sitting, rubbing his palms over his exhausted face and then through his hair before swinging his feet over the side of the bed. 

He glances down, smiling a little as he notes the faded Batman bedding wrinkling under his fingers. It’s silly, but he’s thankful that his mother never changed it. For all her misguided interference, she does care about him, and she knows the sheets bring him happiness and comfort, so they stay. And alright, perhaps Anna _was_ on to something when she called him a dork. So sue him, he liked Batman as a teen and no one of note ever saw the inside of his bedroom anyway.

With a groan, Castiel hauls himself to his feet. He’s not yet undressed, he can still go upstairs and join his parents, Michael, and Anna for a game or a drink. Act like a civilized person, _socialize,_ do what he came all the way to Lake Tahoe to do. 

As he turns to leave, there’s a knock at the sliding glass door that leads out from his room onto the balcony. The back of the house has several—a huge one off of the living space on the top floor, and one attached to each bedroom underneath. Castiel’s stretches across to the billiards room next to his, and also has steps down to the ground below. If he were the type of rebellious teen that enjoyed sneaking out and getting into trouble, that set-up might have caused his parents a lot of grief when he was in school. Lucky for them, Castiel was far too busy attending Mock Trial preparations and _actually_ studying for the SATs for that idea to even occur to him. 

He whirls around, suddenly very aware of how unkempt and messy he likely appears. From his unbrushed hair to his untucked dress shirt, not to mention the vague dizziness that lingers in his head from all the whiskey he downed earlier. That, at least, is clearing (slowly). 

Still, he’s thrown for a loop when his eyes register _Dean Winchester_ standing in his doorway, waving sheepishly. “What on earth,” Castiel mutters, padding back across the room and staring through the glass like he’s not sure whether Dean is an apparition. 

“Hey,” Dean says through the glass, his breath making clouds in the cold night air. 

Relenting, Castiel slides the door open, immediately folding his arms across his chest to guard against the chill. “This is becoming somewhat of a pattern with us,” he says curiously. “Meeting this way.” 

Dean’s eyes flicker upward, towards the main living room where Castiel knows his family is gathered. Right away, Castiel puts two and two together. “Ah,” he says, ducking his head and biting back a smile. “Dean, I know that my mother can be—” Hesitating, Castiel searches for the correct word. “Insistent. And clearly, you two have a relationship that you’re not keen on damaging. Trust me when I say, you do not need to pursue her youngest, most eligible son in order to stay in her good graces. I’ll gladly take the fall and she won’t question it for a second.”

Unexpectedly, Dean’s head snaps back, green eyes boring into his like possessed fire when he lifts them. It makes Castiel start, has him sucking in a breath and trying to hide it, those incessant _bats_ fluttering away in his stomach once again. 

_Oh my,_ Castiel thinks.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Dean tells him, index finger raised and pointed like he’s taken particular offense to what Castiel just said. “Yeah, alright, your mom might’ve opened the door...literally. But nobody tells me what to do. You better believe if I’m down here, it’s ‘cause I think you’re worth my time.” The stern look melts off of Dean’s face and he smirks. “I dig this whole look you have going, what is this? Chicago chic? Does everybody out there style their hair like they just got lucky?” 

Blinking in surprise, Castiel’s hand flies to his head, frantically (and probably ineffectually) attempting to smooth the messy, disobedient tendrils of hair down. Dean laughs, reaching out to tug his hand away, even as Castiel flushes and tries not to look affected by the way Dean’s fingers curl warmly around his wrist.

“Leave it,” Dean says. His smile is charming and flirty and who the hell is Castiel to argue with that?

“Alright,” he replies, swallowing thickly.

“Anyway,” Dean continues, dropping Castiel’s wrist, to his dismay _(what is wrong with him?)._ “Look, if you want me to get lost, just say so. Yeah, I’m technically doing your mom’s bidding right now, but Cas—I really dug getting to know you earlier, and I gotta admit, felt a little snubbed at how quick you were to get away from me.” The twinkle in Dean’s eye suggests he’s kidding, but for whatever reason, Castiel also suspects he’s being entirely sincere. Dean stuffs his hands into his pockets and sways a little where he’s standing, biting his lip.

“I wasn’t—”

“I know you’re like, on a deadline, or whatever. Home for Christmas, plans for world domination, I dig it. I’m not trying to get in the way of any of that. I just thought, you know. Maybe you’d wanna hang out. Grab a drink. Whole point of going home is to have fun, right? To relax? Maybe catch up with some old friends?” 

Narrowing his eyes, Castiel sizes Dean up thoughtfully. “Anna told you, didn’t she?”

Dean’s smile widens. “If I ignored you in high school, trust me, wasn’t personal. I wasn’t—” He breaks off, stares out into the shadowy forest and where Castiel knows the lake lies beyond. “Took me a while to be comfortable with myself. Wasn’t there yet, then. Saw a picture of you, though.” He winks. “You were my type then and you’re my type now.” Before Castiel can dream up a reply to _that,_ Dean’s rambling on. “So what do you say? One drink? We can go down the stairs out here, we don’t even have to tell your parents that their plan worked.”

It occurs to Castiel that Dean is still wearing his clothes from earlier—no firefighting uniform, no radios or pagers in sight. “I thought you were...on duty or something tonight. Volunteer firefighter, yes?”

“Switched shifts,” Dean replies airily. He raises his eyebrows, completely undeterred as he waits for Castiel to respond to his proposal.

Castiel sighs, looking longingly over his shoulder at his bed and his Batman sheets. After a moment, he reaches to grab his jacket from where it’s draped over a chair in the corner of the room, slipping out the sliding door and closing it behind him with a quiet _whoosh_ and a click. “Their plan _didn’t_ work,” he reminds Dean firmly, though he can already feel his resolve slipping. “It’s just one drink.” 

***

The Roadhouse was never a place Castiel spent much time. Even on return visits to town after he reached the legal drinking age (not that the Roadhouse is the type of place that checks), it wasn’t particularly his scene. He and Anna were always more the “tapas and wine spritzers,” type, and Castiel is only realizing _right_ now how unbelievably stereotypically gay that sounds. Regardless, although he’s driven by the place hundreds of times, Castiel’s only been inside the Roadhouse once or twice—to pick up burgers, if his memory serves. 

The building itself is definitively out of place in Incline Village, looking like it belongs somewhere along Castiel’s travels through roadside Americana, instead. Indeed, the classic-roadhouse style, neon beer signs in the windows, dilapidated front porch, and clapboard siding are all things the residents of Castiel’s town would normally riot over, elitists that they are. The Roadhouse seems to have afforded itself a pass, though, simply by outlasting all of the competition and half of the people who’ve lived here over the years to begin with.

Exiting Dean’s truck and walking in beside him now, Castiel begins to wonder if eschewing this place was a mistake. Right off the bat, the interior is welcoming and homey, making Castiel feel strangely warm inside. Colored Christmas lights are strung wall-to-wall, a big, _real_ tree is decorated and set in one corner, and Jon Bon Jovi is singing “Please Come Home for Christmas” via the jukebox. There’s a quiet buzz of chatter mixed with the enticing smell of good fried food and beer.

Castiel immediately decides that Dean or no, this was a good decision.

Their arrival turns the quiet buzz into a chorus of cheers and various people yelling Dean’s name, which is unexpected. Even more so is Castiel being sidelined for a minute as Dean slaps hands and greets nearly everyone they pass by on the way to the bar. Enough so that he nearly reconsiders proclaiming this a “good idea,” but not quite. After all, Dean doesn’t owe him anything.

Still, he might have felt awkward, but the very moment Castiel considers the notion, Dean reappears by his side. He smiles warmly and his hand comes to rest in the middle of Castiel’s back, reassuring. The moment and the gesture are almost too intimate for near-strangers who are definitely _not_ on a date and just sharing _one drink_ together, _but_. 

Castiel allows it anyway, because frankly, everyone is looking at them and it feels good. Dean is—objectively speaking— _very_ attractive, and so sue Castiel if he’s a little bit flattered. 

The flattery also helps explain away the bats that are still flapping away in his belly, and he’s more than happy to latch onto any explanation for _that_ mess.

Once at the bar, Dean takes his coat to hang on the rack nearby, and Castiel takes a seat on a barstool. He’s sober enough by now for nerves and nervousness to start creeping in, not to mention the question of, _what the hell is he even doing?_ But Dean—he’s just so _bright._ There’s something about him that draws Castiel in, makes him impossible to turn down, to walk away from. He makes Castiel curious, makes him want to know more, to peel back his layers and—okay, maybe the clothes, too. 

A kind-looking, middle-aged woman appears on the other side of the bar, and Dean reacts by hoisting himself up on his hips so that he can lean across and kiss her cheek. “Hey, darlin’,” she says, patting his face in return. The soft way she looks at Dean reminds Castiel of his own mother. Knowing what he does about Dean’s past, he’s oddly relieved to find that the man still has something of a mother-figure in his life. Castiel pauses, reflecting back on what he witnessed earlier between Naomi and Dean and thinks, _perhaps more than one._

“This is Ellen,” Dean tells him, as he settles onto his stool. “She’s my—” Dean pauses, making a face. “I guess _aunt_ is probably the closest thing, but we don’t tend to put labels on it.” Ellen winks and slides a beer and a shot of whiskey in front of Dean before raising an eyebrow at Castiel in question.

“The same, please,” he tells her, and both drinks appear in a flash.

“You know what Bobby always says,” Ellen tells Dean. “Family don’t end in blood. Doesn’t matter what you call us, and don’t think I don’t know you have some colorful names for both me and Bobby you wouldn’t dare say to my face.” 

Caught off guard, Dean snorts some of his beer, spending the next minute or so sputtering into a napkin that Ellen holds out with a pleased expression on said face. “Anyway,” she continues, this time focusing on Castiel as Dean recovers. “Any friend of Dean’s is more than welcome here.”

“Cas’ car is the one I brought down to the shop today,” Dean chimes in, apparently intent on ignoring Ellen’s accusation. “Gotta fix it up quick so he can take off on us next week.” 

“Ah,” Ellen says with a knowing nod. “Holiday visit?”

“Something like that,” Castiel mutters, staring down into his beer. Somehow, each time Dean brings up how understanding he is of Castiel leaving, it only makes him feel worse about doing so. 

Ellen looks between them curiously before stepping away, wiping her hands on a dishrag. “Well then, I’ll leave you two be. Dean, you know your way around the bar—don’t make me waste my time serving your lazy ass. You hear me, boy?” Her affectionate tone belies the strong words, and Dean salutes sloppily in acknowledgement. 

“Yes, ma’am.” As soon as she’s turned her attention to other customers, Dean shifts on his stool, raising his shot glass and gesturing for Castiel to do the same. “To us,” he says hopefully.

Castiel hesitates for a minute, giving Dean a rueful look and knowing full-well that he should correct him. There _is_ no “us” for him and Dean, there never will be. But—perhaps for just tonight—it wouldn’t hurt Castiel to pretend. He raises his glass. “To us,” he echoes, and Dean’s responding smile is brighter than anything in this world has a right to be.

Just like in the truck, conversation flows easily between them, and Castiel knows he can’t entirely blame the alcohol. As stories are shared and Dean opens up about his life since the crush Castiel doesn’t remember having on him in high school, it gets harder and harder to deny. There’s _something_ between the two of them—something magnetic and strange and enthralling. The only thing Castiel _can_ blame the alcohol for is his increasing willingness to both entertain _and_ discuss it.

“Look, I get you have a whole...personal vendetta against being wrong,” Dean teases, reaching over the bar to refill their shot glasses for the...Castiel’s lost count. He scowls and busies himself with sipping, even though the whiskey isn’t good enough to savor. 

“That’s not—I’m _practical,_ ” Castiel huffs. “Logical. You’re making it sound like everyone else knows something I don’t. Have you perhaps considered that _you’re_ the one who’s mistaken?”

“Hey,” Dean interjects with a laugh. He drops his glass to the counter with a clatter, apparently for the sole purpose of putting his hands up in mock surrender. “Sweetheart, I don’t have a dog in this fight. I never said anything about believing in love at first sight.” He pauses, bites his lip, and grins slyly as his eyes traverse Castiel’s body for _not_ the first time. “ _Lust,_ on the other hand…”

Castiel can’t help it, he laughs too. He has been, all night, more than he’s laughed in years.

“Oh man,” Dean says, shaking his head. “First you reject me, then you laugh at me. Damn, Cas, you really know how to stroke a guy’s ego.” 

Spinning on his stool, Castiel and his whiskey-addled brain let their knee press quite daringly against Dean’s thigh. “I didn’t reject you,” he says, finishing off the shot before leaning forward, almost into Dean’s space. It’s closer than they’ve been all night, but Dean doesn’t flinch or pull away, not in the slightest. “It’s just my experience and my belief that people see what they want to see in their relationships, and that love at first sight is nothing but a mix of emotions— _including_ lust—mixed with a deep desire to _be_ in love in the first place.” 

From a scant few inches away, Dean licks his lips, and Castiel lets himself watch without pretending he isn’t. “Yeah?” Dean asks huskily. “Well, counter-point, then. Who cares?”

Castiel blinks, pulling back slightly. “What?”

“Who cares?” Dean repeats, sliding forward on his stool to make up for the distance Castiel’s put between them. His eyes search Castiel’s face, genuinely curious. “What’s it matter? I mean, really? Who cares what you call it, love, lust? _Pining,_ I think you said earlier—that’s the word you really like. What’s it even matter? You said you don’t like labels, right? Why do you care about them so much here?”

“Because,” Castiel shoots back defensively. “Because purported _love at first sight_ makes people do very stupid things. Makes them throw away careers and opportunities, uproot their lives for what will inevitably amount to nothing but pain and disappointment. It’s an abject lie. It’s an excuse to let someone in, closer than they have any right to be, just to have something to blame when things don’t ‘work out’.” He uses actual air quotes on the last two words, which appears to amuse Dean greatly.

“Fine,” Dean tells him, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he drags his lower lip between his teeth once more, nodding his head like he’s thinking. “Fine. In that case, you won’t mind if I kiss you.”

“What?” Castiel asks, startled.

“Yeah,” Dean continues, increasingly confident. “If this is all just bullshit and there’s nothing between us, then we should find out for sure. I’ll kiss you, you won’t feel anything, we can shake hands and go our separate ways knowing that neither of us are falling headfirst into—what did you call it?—an _abject lie.”_ The smirk on Dean’s face should have Castiel turning on his heel and walking straight out the front door, and _this_ he’ll definitely blame the whiskey for, no holds barred.

“Anna warned me about this place,” he says instead. “The Roadhouse. Do you take all of your conquests here to seduce?” 

It’s Dean’s turn to laugh, and he does so with his whole body, throwing his head back and letting his shoulders shake with the effort. When he finally composes himself, he’s smiling and his cheeks are ruddy. “Maybe,” he replies, charmingly cocky for someone who was losing it only a minute ago. “Is it working?” 

“Maybe,” Castiel says, leaning forward just as Dean does the same. The damn bats make their presence known again, but when his lips touch Dean’s, they suddenly become a very distant memory. It’s not like _anything_ in the world could overshadow the fireworks that explode in and around Castiel’s head when they finally kiss. 

Dean’s lips are soft and his hand is gentle where it cups the side of Castiel’s face. He’s an incredible kisser, and that _must_ be why this feels the way it does—but Castiel’s not exactly in a mental place to do any in-depth analysis. No, he’s more in a, _try not to climb into a near-stranger’s lap in a public place_ frame of mind at the moment. His head spins and his body burns and Castiel never _ever_ wants to stop kissing Dean.

_Fireworks._

Fireworks and Twisted Sister crooning, “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful,” in the background, which is _quite_ the mix but _still_. It takes every last bit of Castiel’s sanity to _not_ think the words “holiday miracle” in his own brain because he _knows better._ He definitely, one hundred percent _knows better._

“You boys about ready to call it a night or did you want to get naked right here on the bar?” 

Dean pulls away swiftly, leaving Castiel practically flailing in mid-air. Naturally, he catches himself on Dean’s thighs, because they’re _right there,_ and the feel of Dean’s muscle under his hands doesn’t help his current situation in the least. When he manages to sit up, there’s a built man with a grey beard, a puffer vest, and a ratty ballcap standing on the other side of the bar, glaring them down.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean says, somewhat sheepishly. “We got a little carried away—”

“Don’t you “Hey, Bobby,” me, I thought you were sick. Rufus said you switched off your shift at the station and you _never_ do that unless—”

“It’s no big deal,” Dean tries, but Bobby keeps barreling on. 

“Now I see you just wanted to get _lucky._ Thought I raised you better than that, boy. Shirking your responsibilities to—”

“Bobby.” Ellen miraculously appears by his side, rubbing the older man’s arm soothingly. She stands on her tiptoes, cupping a hand around Dean’s uncle’s ear and whispering. As she does, Bobby’s gaze darts from Dean to Castiel and back, and his expression goes from angry to surprised to resignedly entertained but trying to hide it. 

Clearing his throat, Castiel shifts to sit more solidly on his stool, taking the opportunity to glance around the bar. It’s _empty,_ and when did that happen? How long, exactly, were they kissing?! 

When he drags his attention back to the little family, Bobby has seemingly let Dean off the hook, and Castiel isn’t sure that he wants to know what Ellen said. Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“We’ll give you and your new friend a ride home then,” Bobby announces gruffly. “Since you two idjits drank us half out of house and home, can’t have either of ya driving. Ellen’ll pick me up at yours, Dean, we have rent to collect there anyway.” Since it’s two a.m., Castiel doubts that very much, but again—gift horse, mouth.

The drive back to Castiel’s parents house is awkward, with Dean sitting in the second row of his own truck like a teenager caught doing something wrong. It’s mostly silent, though halfway there Bobby gruffly tells Castiel that his rental will be ready to pick up tomorrow afternoon, and that he can stop by whenever.

“Thank you,” Castiel replies, and that’s the extent of their interaction. Thankfully, the trek is short, and they’re pulling into the Novak driveway less than ten minutes after leaving the Roadhouse. When Dean hops out with him, Bobby has something to say about that, too.

“Don’t leave me sittin’ here all night like a jackass while you two lovebirds feel each other up,” he calls through the closing door, and even Dean has the decency to flush. Despite Bobby’s warning, Dean still walks him down around the back of the house and up the two (long) flights of exterior stairs to Castiel’s bedroom. 

“Bobby’s not as crusty as he seems,” he offers, but Castiel just smiles and shrugs. Doesn't really matter if he is, it’s not as if he’s going to be Castiel’s father-in-law, or whatever the word would be for what Bobby is to Dean.

Standing outside his sliding glass door, one look from Dean and Castiel is practically throwing himself back into his arms. They make out fiercely for several long minutes, Castiel hooking a leg over Dean’s thigh and Dean grabbing it, pawing at his ass with strong, eager fingers. The whole thing is hot as hell and _sensual_ , the tension sparking between them just as much in the moments where they’re gasping into each other’s mouths as when they’re touching.

It’s _way_ better than any first or second kiss Castiel’s ever experienced in his life, maybe better than any kiss he’s had at all. Dean’s back and shoulder muscles flex under Castiel’s hands, more so as he runs his own under Castiel’s jacket and over any part of him he can reach. Castiel can just tell—Dean would be selfless in bed, he’d be careful, attentive, _thorough—_ and Castiel curses the fact that he can’t stay.

Dean’s lips trail to his neck, sucking a soft kiss there while Castiel moans, wanting more than anything to tug him through the doorway and hope that Bobby gets the message when he doesn’t return. He can’t, though, and while it destroys him, Castiel summons the wherewithal to push Dean away gently. He goes with the _softest,_ most lust-drunk smile on his face, and _God,_ but Castiel wants to yank him back in. It just goes to show—he _finally_ gives a little, lets down his guard and budges an _inch_ on his disbelief of— _no, not even going to finish that thought._

Holiday Love: one; Castiel: zero.

“You should go,” he says regretfully, and Dean nods, ducking his head and touching his fingers to his lips. The bats return in full force, and Castiel _really_ has to work not to drag the man inside. “I’m sure that I’ll see you—”

Dean looks up sharply, eyes clearer than they’ve been in hours. “Shit, Cas,” he says. “If you think I’m gonna let you push me away now…” Dean laughs softly. “You made a mistake,” he adds, dragging a thumb over Castiel’s lower lip and lingering for a moment. “Should’ve told me you didn’t feel a damn thing.” 

From somewhere above them, the truck horn blares and Castiel winces, knowing his entire house _definitely_ heard that and _will_ have questions come morning.

“See you tomorrow,” Dean says with what Castiel is learning is his patented wink, pecking him on the lips before disappearing down the stairs and into the dark. “Don’t miss me too much!”

 _Hormones,_ Castiel reminds himself as the bats flutter and his cheeks warm despite the cold. _Hormones. Lust. Pining._

_All of those things, but definitely not love._

Castiel shuts the door both literally and figuratively on that thought.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: a trip to the holiday bazaar with no ulterior motives, an unfortunate nap, Charlie helps, and a party nobody wants. Bonus: things heat up at the firehouse.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“So, Castiel, have you been a good boy this year?”_   
>  _“No,” Castiel replies flatly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some vague m-level content ahead :)
> 
> Also, Blue Angel Cafe is a real place in Tahoe, and the bazaar is real (and held there), too! [Check it out.](https://tahoe.com/listings/zawadishas-annual-holiday-bazaar) Dean's station is also real. Someday, I will just write a fic and not care about realistic details but today is not that day.

The next morning, Castiel doesn’t roll out of bed until well after the clock strikes noon. He wakes up to Christmas music ( _not_ reinvented by well-known rock artists) playing faintly over the house’s built-in speakers, which thankfully Castiel’s room is exempt from. His mouth is dry, tasting like something died in it and his bladder is screaming. Even still, the last thing he wants to do is move. 

Castiel’s Batman sheets are soft and worn-in, the edges tickling his cheek when he snuggles down against his pillow. They smell like the fabric softener Naomi’s used since as far back as he can remember, and beneath that, the unique scent Castiel associates with family and _home_. He hums happily, _almost_ dozing off again despite the various discomforts in his body, until the peaceful quiet is rudely interrupted.

“Get _up,_ you lazy fuck,” Anna yells through the door, pounding on it with her fist. “If my giant ass can do it, so can you.”

“Anna!” 

Castiel grins as he hears his mother’s slight-muffled, chastising voice join his friend’s. “Leave Castiel be, he’ll get up when he’s ready.”

“This is what we call enabling,” Anna shoots back. “Ma, I know you want grandkids, but they had _one drink_ last night.” 

“That’s not how I heard it,” Zachariah’s voice chimes in, joining the fray. Inside his room, Castiel groans and buries his face in the pillow. “I saw Ellen at the café this morning and she said—”

“I can _hear_ you,” Castiel calls out, tipping his head to the side so he’s sure he’ll be heard. “I’ll be out sometime in the next decade, if you’re lucky.”

“That’s alright, sweetheart. You take your time,” Naomi calls back, and Castiel can just picture her. Probably leaning against the door with both palms pressed flat against the wood in a substitute hug. “We were thinking of going to the Christmas bazaar in town, would you like to join? Lunch at the café after.”

“Last minute presents,” Anna adds. “You know, so I can make sure you get me something good.” 

“Go bother Michael,” Castiel complains. “You’re confusing me with the brother who promised to love you both in sickness and in health. I have no such obligation and I _will_ stuff a sock in your mouth if you continue to yell.”

“I brought you Advil and coffee,” Anna replies smugly, and suddenly, Castiel is much more interested in being a decent human being. He rolls (literally) out of the bed, leaving the covers askew as he shuffles over to the door. Cracking it less than two inches, he peers through suspiciously, unsurprised to find the Three Loud Amigos staring unapologetically back, all smiles. 

“Morning, son,” Zachariah says cheerfully, holding up his own moose-shaped coffee mug in a mock-cheers gesture. He has on a terrible green and red, diamond-patterned sweater vest, and Castiel is beginning to wonder when they’re going to suggest _he_ join in on this terrible family tradition. His mother’s holiday sweater is somewhat subdued today, at least—black with candy canes stitched across it—and there are no jingle bells to herald her arrival in a room. That’s an improvement.

Anna holds out a steaming mug of coffee and a fistful of pills with a smirk, and while Castiel glares, he accepts them without comment. Throwing the medicine back, he takes a big gulp of delicious dark roast before leaning against the doorframe and willing it all to work faster. He rubs his temple and inadvertently sniffs himself— _gross._

_Shower necessary, sooner rather than later._

“There’s a lovely woman who owns an apiary on the south side of the lake. She sells her honey at the bazaar,” Naomi says hopefully, and it’s the right trick—Castiel’s a sucker for bees. “She’ll gladly talk your ear off about backyard beekeeping if you let her. She’s also single—perhaps if you didn’t hit it off with Dean—” 

Anna snorts and even Zachariah has to look away to hide his smile. Castiel presses his forehead to the beadboard and groans. “Mother,” he grumbles. “I’m—”

“Fruitier than a panettone,” Anna inserts helpfully. Castiel intensifies his glare.

“What?” Naomi replies, innocently raising her hands. “I only wanted to give you _options,_ ” she explains urgently, reaching out to rub his arm, not that Castiel needs any soothing. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel badly, Castiel. You know I don’t care who you date, just that you’re happy.”

“I know that,” Castiel says with a sigh, ceasing his attempt to move the wall with his face and squeezing his mother’s hand in return. “I also know that you are _digging_ and that you are relentless, which is the only reason I am going to give you this _one_ crumb.” He pauses, ignoring the way Anna looks positively entertained by his misery, and faces Naomi. “I like Dean,” he admits. “We—we get along well. You were right.” 

Naomi’s free hand shoots out, grabbing Castiel’s father’s arm in a death grip. Zachariah winces and tries to look happy about it. “Oh, Castiel—” She starts, her eyes practically glazing over with tears, but he holds up a hand before she can start planning the wedding. Out loud, anyway—Castiel’s under no delusions that she hasn’t secretly been doing that very thing for years. He and his future husband are just placeholders, at this point.

“Please,” he says, serious this time. “This doesn’t change a thing. Dean and I are from two different worlds and we live very different lives. When this week is over, we’ll both return to them and that will be that.”

Rolling her eyes, Anna turns on her heel, hand pressed firmly into the small of her back as she waddles away. Castiel vows to take a video of that sometime, to use for blackmail later. “You’re so dramatic, Castiel. If he’s good to look at, decent to talk to, and you like macking on him—” She turns to glance over her shoulder. “—And don’t lie, I saw that part, our balcony is right across from yours—you’ll figure the rest out.” 

When Castiel turns back to his parents, his mother is smiling up at him brightly. Castiel senses that his well-meaning attempt to dim her enthusiasm regarding pushing him towards Dean has effectively backfired. Time to retreat. 

“Is twenty minutes enough for you to get ready? For the bazaar,” Naomi clarifies. “You’ll want to shower. And wear something nice.”

“I guess,” Castiel mutters, backing up into his room and shutting the door in her face. He leans against it for a moment, closing his eyes. The fog in his brain clearing, Castiel thinks back on the previous night and those incredible, semi-drunken kisses with Dean. After a brief self-examination, he’s wholly unable to scrape up even an ounce of regret regarding any of it. Even with all of the ensuing grief he’s getting from his family.

 _Not having regret is different than wanting a future, though,_ he reminds himself, stepping onto the cold tiles of the ensuite and turning on the shower to heat up. Still feeling a little fuzzy, Castiel brings his coffee under the spray with him. He drinks the rest before even attempting to clean and make himself presentable. 

Twenty-five minutes later, he’s folding his long legs into the back seat of his parents’ SUV. The sun in his eyes isn’t overly pleasant, but the travel mug filled with a generous coffee refill is helping. Michael is already downtown, has been since shortly after dawn. The bazaar is being held at his restaurant, which is quite an honor, and Naomi tells Castiel that his brother is very stressed about making sure things go right.

The Blue Angel Café does a booming business here in Tahoe, but Michael’s cash investment into his fledgling career meant that buying a home for him and Anna had to wait. It’s been over five years since the café opened, and they’ve only begun to turn a real profit in the last one. Now, they’re just hoping it lasts. Castiel privately thinks that Michael is damn lucky Anna is so supportive of his dreams—she’s put a lot of her own hopes aside to help him be successful. 

For all his talk, Castiel would personally skin his brother alive if he ever hurt her, but he also suspects she’d do the same for him. Michael, not Castiel, that is.

To his left, Anna shifts uncomfortably, sipping from her own travel mug full of tea. Castiel’s only disappointment with Michael not being present is that he can’t tease his sister-in-law for not fitting into the middle seat between them. Probably for the best, he doesn’t actually want to get disowned before he can meet his niece. 

“Everyone buckled?” Zachariah asks, speaking likes he has two ten-year-old kids in the back and not a pair of adults in their mid-thirties. To be fair, he and Anna _do_ act like children quite often when they’re together.

And then they’re off. The trip into town is short, but Castiel takes pleasure in passing by all of the familiar places from his childhood that he’s long missed. They pull up in front of the Blue Angel just as another car leaves—fortunate timing, since the parking lot is packed and vehicles line the street heavily. The spaces on both sides are completely filled, all the way down the block in both directions. Certainly bodes well for Michael, though Castiel is less thrilled about the crowds.

It’s palpably chillier in Tahoe today with temperatures lingering in the mid-forties, but vendor tables spill out onto the café’s front lawn despite the cold. When the wind blows, Castiel tugs the lapels of his favorite trench coat more tightly around his body as he closes the door to the car. The thin dress shirt he has on underneath isn’t _quite_ warm enough for the weather, but like hell he’s joining in with the happy sweater brigade. 

“Come on,” Anna says insistently, looping an arm through Castiel’s and dragging him towards the first vendor, something with a sign that suggests they sell fancy personal care products. “There are some _incredible_ homemade bars here. Have you ever used goat milk soap?” She punctuates her enthusiasm with a groan—the sound more closely mimicking an orgasm than anything else—and Castiel glances around, embarrassed, as they stop at the wide table full of offerings.

“Ten dollars a bar?” he remarks, examining the back of one paper-wrapped piece of soap. “For that price, it better have me making noises like that. And I assure you, I’m not nearly as easy to win over.”

Anna laughs and slaps him on the arm. “Don’t be a dick, these people work hard.” Castiel rolls his eyes but as soon as she wanders away, he buys her five of the nicest-smelling bars. 

“Do you like the goat milk soap, too?” he asks his mother, who looks at him in return like he’s suddenly grown three heads.

“I like Dove, Castiel,” she replies incredulously. “Sometimes you can get them three for one at the Safeway.” 

“God, we _are_ related,” Castiel exclaims, wrapping his arms around her thin shoulders and squeezing tight. “I love you,” he adds, kissing her cheek before darting away to catch up with Anna. The pleased smile on his mother’s face as he goes makes the sappy display _more_ than worth it.

The four of them make their way through various displays of artisan breads and cheeses, popcorn, juices, and candy. There are multiple tables with handcrafted jewelry, and Castiel manages to stalk his mother until he finds something she’s eyeing, snapping it up quickly after she moves on. He picks up locally roasted coffee for his dad (who is a total bean-snob), a pair of quirky cufflinks, and a unique woven beach blanket for his parents to share—they love picnicking at the lake. 

For Michael, he chooses an expensive-looking watch made from upcycled copper that he knows his brother will love but would never buy himself. Lastly, he commissions a nursery sign made from recycled wood, secretly hoping that it will make Anna cry, which means that he wins Christmas. He already has a crib on order from Amazon, and if the sign doesn’t work, that should definitely do the trick.

They move from outside to in, and Castiel is so engrossed in shopping that he doesn’t take much notice to what else is going on inside the café. It’s only when he runs out of tables and vendors to peruse, that he really takes a minute to look around. Belatedly locating his family ordering food and drinks from Michael at the counter, Castiel wanders over. He doesn’t bother with the menu, instead informing his mother that he’ll have whatever Michael thinks he’ll enjoy. 

The café—like everything else in town—is decked out for the holidays. Evergreen garlands with bulbs and lights intertwined in the branches tastefully decorate the space and holiday music plays through the speakers. Castiel’s eyes roam over it all, taking note of the heavy business the place is doing, mostly families with more than one small kid. Michael has a lot to be proud of—his restaurant and the event are extremely nice, and Castiel feels proud.

Off in one corner, to the left of the counter they’re standing at, there’s a cheesy photography area set up. The wide screen backdrop boasts a giant picture of a roaring fire and a window drifted with falling snow. In front of the backdrop sits a well-decorated Christmas tree and an ornate chair with a live Santa seated on it. Santa looks very obviously like he’s had a pillow stuffed down the front of his shirt and his beard is the bright-white, stereotypically-Santa kind you’d find at Party City, but the kids don’t seem to mind. 

As Castiel looks on, though, he realizes that something is amiss. The line never seems to get any shorter, but the number of kids who have congregated isn’t growing. After a minute or two, he figures it out. The kids have all each taken a turn—they’re just hopping in line _again_ as soon as they’re done. Whoever this Santa is, he must be pretty good. It’s serving the parents well, too, most of them able to sit and enjoy their meals without anyone bothering them. 

The downside to that is table availability—there is none. That leaves Castiel, Anna, and his parents standing and waiting for something to open up. They move to the side of the room, within earshot of Santa, and it’s then that Castiel hears him laugh.

“No,” Castiel blurts out, looking over at Anna in disbelief. She laughs loudly, enough to attract the attention of a couple dining nearby, and Castiel quickly slaps his hand over her mouth before _Santa_ can take notice too. “That’s not— _is it?!”_

When he releases her face, Anna just grins. “C’mon Cas. You know you want to sit on Santa’s lap.”

“Stop it,” he scolds her, batting her hand away when she reaches out. “Don’t embarrass me. Did you know about this?” he asks his mother, not requiring an answer after witnessing her carefully practiced, faux-innocent expression.

“I _literally_ live to embarrass you,” Anna retorts, grabbing his arm and dragging him to the front of the “Meet Santa” line before he can protest. If Castiel didn’t know that most of these kids have already had two or three turns on Santa’s lap, perhaps he would have put up more of a fight. In truth, this _is_ a rather funny situation— _he’s_ not the one dressed up as an overweight mythical creature—and he does very much want to say hi to Dean.

On the other hand, he should have been more suspicious of Anna—when will he learn? As the tot ahead of them hops off of Dean’s lap with a happy grin, Castiel steps forward and Anna seizes opportunity by the horns. With Castiel slightly off-balance from walking, it’s all too easy for her to grab his hips and yank him sideways. She comes from behind and uses her weight to make him stumble, sending him crashing somewhat pathetically into Dean’s lap. 

“Yaaaayyy!” The line of children cheers. 

Not having much choice, Castiel finds himself perched on Santa-Dean’s thigh with his arms around his neck, staring into those gorgeous green eyes. He should have guessed (but isn’t surprised to find) that they’re no less incredible beneath the wig and beard and the silly red hat. “Hello, Dean,” he says softly, knowing full-well that his hot cheeks are turning bright red.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean replies easily. “You know, if you wanted to sit in my lap—”

“The _children,_ ” Castiel hisses, but the line is almost ten feet back and it’s not as if the kids would understand the implications. Dean’s pretty eyes crinkle and Castiel can’t help it—he’s a sucker for them, for Dean. 

“So, Castiel, have you been a good boy this year?”

“No,” Castiel replies flatly, adjusting his position on Dean’s thigh and trying _not_ to imagine how this situation could play out in more private, intimate circumstances.

“Well, it’s never too late to change your ways and get yourself on the nice list. Tell me, what is it you want for Christmas?”

Castiel hesitates, licking his lips and pretending he can’t see the way his family is looking on excitedly. Anna, of course, is long gone from his side, leaving Castiel treading completely on his own in these deep waters. “I thought I knew the answer to that,” he says carefully. “These days, I’m not so sure.”

Even with the beard, Castiel can see Dean’s grin widen. “That so? Well, maybe Santa can help you with that. You know, later.” 

“Later,” Castiel echoes. His voice comes out a little more strained than he’d like, but Dean squeezes his thigh before urging him on, so he’ll dub this potential disaster an overall success. As he walks away, Castiel can’t stop thinking about those _hands_ and where he’d prefer them.

By the time he makes it back to his family, a table has miraculously opened up. Castiel is beginning to wonder very seriously if the entire universe is conspiring against him. He steals a glance over at Dean as their waitress drops his plate in front of him—the man is _adorable_ with the children, patient and kind and endlessly charming—and thinks, maybe there are worse things the universe could be driving him towards, after all.

***

Lunch finishes uneventfully, although Dean makes it a point to find their little group right before they can head home. Outside the café, he comes jogging up just as they make it to the car. Once again, Castiel’s parents and Anna make themselves scarce (this time inside the vehicle, where they can pretend not to listen in through cracked windows that have no business being open with the increasing chill in the air). 

That leaves the two of them standing alone on the sidewalk, awkwardly smiling at each other while pretending they aren’t. Dean’s out of costume now, dressed in simple jeans and a flannel, as attractive as ever. He’s breathless and ruddy from running to catch up, anxious to tell Castiel that he doesn’t need to waste his time going all the way to Singer Auto for his car.

He tells Castiel that he’s headed there anyway to pick up his paycheck, that if Castiel doesn’t mind, he’ll bring the repaired vehicle by the house later on in the afternoon. Before the reminder, Castiel had forgotten that Dean made previous plans to discuss with Naomi the catering he’s doing for their big Christmas party later this week. He tries not to appear _too_ excited at the built-in excuse to see Dean again, reminding his traitorous brain for the umpteenth time that their _fling—_ or whatever this is—is still on borrowed time.

No reason they can’t use that time to have a little fun, though. Castiel’s softening to that prospect surprisingly quickly. By the time they part, he’s already making a mental list of what _fun_ might look like, and dreaming up excuses to bail on his family so that he and Dean can discover some more together.

Dean says goodbye awkwardly, stepping in like he wants to give Castiel a kiss, and truthfully, no one regrets Castiel’s choice to step away more than him. Dean takes it in stride, though, shaking his head and shooting Castiel finger guns before taking off for his truck, presumably parked somewhere down the street. 

Someone who _doesn’t_ take his choice in stride, however, is Naomi.

When Castiel slides behind her seat in the car, she turns around to glare at him disapprovingly. “Castiel,” she scolds him. “Would it have killed you to let him say a proper goodbye?” Castiel gapes, unprepared for this ( _he shouldn’t be, at this point)_ and with no idea what to say. “He’s a _nice_ boy,” Naomi adds for the thousandth time, before turning around and shoving Zachariah’s shoulder to get him to drive.

“Be nice to your mother, Castiel,” his dad chimes in, which has Castiel throwing up his hands and Anna stifling laughter into hers. Honestly, he’s never seen someone so happy to _not_ be the center of attention. Anna fucking _owes_ him. 

Once home, Castiel accidentally passes out cold on the living room couch, apparently more exhausted from the night before than he thought. It’s one of those naps that’s more like a coma, the kind where you wake up with cushion creases branded into your skin and a puddle of drool on the fabric. In other words, very likely the _least_ sexy position he could possibly contort himself into.

Naturally, when Castiel wakes, he’s not alone. He comes back to consciousness slowly, low voices filtering into the back of his mind and mixing with the inky black of his subconscious. Even with his eyes still shut, he grimaces, recognizing one of the voices as the absolute _last_ person he’d want to see him in his current state. Perhaps if he tries, he can will himself back into unconsciousness from sheer embarrassment.

No such luck. In the least timely turn of events ever, Castiel’s phone starts ringing insistently in his back pocket. Worse, it’s turned up to full volume and blasting synchronized vibrations to the tune of Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies”. There are many things in life Castiel is unsure of, but one thing he does know is that song was _definitely,_ one hundred percent _not_ his ring tone when he fell asleep. 

_Damn it, Anna,_ he thinks _._ That’s what he gets for sleeping face-down.

Groggily, Castiel sits up, shoving a hand through his hair before he can think better of it while simultaneously groping at his ass for his phone. “‘Hello?” he mutters, voice scratchy and deeper than usual, eyes still struggling to focus (and yet _very_ aware of the ones watching him). From his place on the couch, Castiel does his best to ignore the fact that the other voices in the room have ceased and that all attention is on him, fuck his life.

“Cas, hey! Geez, you sound half-dead, vacation can’t be _that_ good!” The cheery voice on the other end of the phone is his podcast producer, Charlie. In his daily life, Charlie is a damn lifesaver—technically, she works for the company that airs and does PR for his show, but she always goes above and beyond in helping Castiel edit, package, and make his finished product flawless. Over the years, they’ve become close friends, and honestly, her call is _more_ than welcome right now.

Without acknowledging anyone else, Castiel stands and hurries over to the sliding glass door, stepping out onto the balcony before closing it behind him. This isn’t exactly a conversation he wants overheard, but it’s a necessary one to have. After all, Charlie is one of the few people in the world that know the cold, hard truth regarding the way Castiel _really_ feels about “Holiday Love” and everything it comes with it. 

Also, she’s gay as Christmas, so that helps too.

“Charlie,” he says in relief. The air out back is biting without a coat, but Castiel is slightly overheated from lying facedown for hours, so it’s not as terrible as it could be. He wanders over to the railing and leans on it, looking out over the beautiful view of the lake. “It’s good to hear from you.” 

True to form, Charlie picks up on something wrong right away, and Castiel finds himself spilling his guts about everything that’s happened thus far with Dean. From the weird moment when they met on the highway, to the easy conversation and subsequent make-out sessions, to Castiel’s rapidly changing and increasingly confusing feelings for the man..

While Charlie doesn’t judge, she’s also not afraid of teasing him. Internally, Castiel vows to never, _ever_ let her and Anna meet. “Sounds like you’ve had quite the worldview shakeup,” she says bluntly, and he can _hear_ the smirk in her voice.

“Charlie,” he grumbles. “This is serious, help me.” 

“‘Fraid no can do, bucko.”

 _Bucko,_ Castiel mouths in distaste, wrinkling his nose as she continues.

“Thing is, Cas, I’ve got a pretty good sense that you already have this one figured out. If you don’t wanna believe your own conclusions? Not much little old me can do to change that.” 

“You’re supposed to be my friend, Charlie. Why are you not telling me what I want to hear? Need I remind you, you’re also—for all intents and purposes—my boss, or at least, you speak for the people who sign our paychecks. If I fall in love with Dean and get knocked up with twins before I can embark on this fabulous world tour you have planned, where will your company be then?” 

Charlie’s resulting laugh is loud enough that Castiel has to pull the phone away from his ear, but at least the sound makes him smile. When she calms down, she replies, “You’re not going to do that. Cas, you love to pretend that everything is black and white, but you know it’s not. Whatever you’ve told yourself in your head, this isn’t a ‘one or the other’ thing. If it’s real, you _can_ work it out, if you want to.” 

“Anna said something similar,” Castiel complains. “Why do I even talk to you people? Friends are supposed to reinforce your problematic misconceptions about yourself and your life, not expose difficult truths you’re trying desperately to avoid.”

“Fine,” Charlie says with a sigh. “You’re successful, you’re pretty, you don’t need love and it would never work out between you and the hunky firefighter anyway. Get through the week, get on the flight, and never think about him again.”

“Thank you,” Castiel replies. “I look forward to doing the same for you someday.” 

“Bitch, I don’t need your kind of help. I _am_ fabulous and I deserve the world, and don’t you let me forget it.” 

“Noted,” Castiel says with a smile. “Anyway, not that I’m not enjoying this little tête-à-tête, but I’m assuming you have a work-related reason for calling?” 

Charlie makes a humming noise on the other end of the line. “Oh, right. Well, my Christmas plans fell through. Gilda’s mom is sick and she hates me—no pity, it’s mutual—so all the cute winter dates we had planned are kinda on hold. Point: I have a lot of time on my hands and I’d appreciate the distraction, so if you wanna email me what you have for the livestream, I’ll curate the pre-recorded clips and stuff. Take it off your plate so you can really enjoy your vacay.” 

The livestream she’s referring to is a post-Christmas event organized by Castiel’s production company, meant to kick off his tour. He’ll be broadcasting it from here in Tahoe (probably from in-between his Batman sheets, if he’s being honest). Despite the podcast being “live” (a first for him), there are plenty of pre-recorded segments that—before Charlie’s offer—represented several long hours of work still in front of him.

Castiel breathes a sigh of relief. “God, that would be incredible,” he says.

“Yeah, yeah, bow to your Queen,” Charlie tells him. “Gotta run—Gilda just got home and, like I said, quality time is in short supply. Hey—for real though, Cas. It sounds corny but...make sure you follow your heart. Toodles!” She hangs up before he can reply. 

Shivering, Castiel turns around to go back inside. He startles when he looks up from his phone and finds Dean standing on the other side of the sliding glass doors, grinning. 

“Hey!” Dean calls out, waving enthusiastically. His face falls when Castiel just stands there gaping at him and he slides the door open with an apologetic shrug. “I was—trying to do a thing. You know, ‘we have to stop meeting this way?’” 

“Oh, right,” Castiel replies, tapping his own head absently as he steps inside the house, grateful for the blast of warmth that greets him. “You’ll have to excuse me, Dean, I’m still half-asleep.” 

“That’s cool,” Dean tells him, bouncing away and back across the living room. He settles on a stool at the kitchen island, shuffling several stacks of paper together. Naomi is, of course, nowhere to be seen. 

Going for nonchalant, Castiel makes his way to the fridge and selects two beers, holding one up at Dean in silent question. Not-so-silently, he asks, “Were you and my mother able to finalize the menu for her ‘Ugly Sweater Party’ on Friday?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says with a chuckle and a nod, waving Castiel off regarding the beer. “Wish I could, but—”

In a rare rush of bravery, Castiel cuts Dean short and blurts out the question that’s been brewing in his mind since he hung up with Charlie. “Would you like to hang out tonight?” 

Across the island from him, Dean makes a face, and Castiel regrets opening his mouth at all, deciding instantly that he’s misread this entire thing. That must be obvious, because Dean rushes to reassure him. “It’s not like that, it’s—same reason I can’t have that beer. I actually do have to work my shift at the firehouse tonight. Um, I was thinking, though—”

“Oh,” Castiel says in relief, uncapping his own bottle and taking a swig. 

Holding up one of the pieces of paper he just collected, Dean hands it over. It’s a shopping list, and a long one, but Castiel’s _very_ familiar with Naomi’s tendency to go overboard when hosting a party. “Stop me if this is stupid, but I just thought—you know your mom better than me. Any chance you might want to come with while I pick this stuff up at the store? Tell me what I can get away with cutting? Dude, she’s got _six_ kinds of cheese on there.” 

Smiling, Castiel glances over the list and nods. “I think I can do that.”

Rounding the island, Dean surprises him by reaching into Castiel’s back pocket and extracting his phone with deft fingers. He smirks when he presses the home button. “No password? Living dangerously there, Cas.”

“I live _alone,_ usually,” he retorts. “But yes, you’re right. My ringtone and my dignity have already suffered for it. Also, _excuse me,_ ” he adds, plucking his phone back from Dean’s fingers, though Dean grabs it right back and holds it up high, out of Castiel’s reach. “I am _not_ going to jump for that, Dean. What if I’d had something—something _private_ that I didn’t want you to see?” 

That’s the wrong (or perhaps _very_ right) thing to say, because Dean’s eyes go dark and he crowds Castiel up against the counter. “Something about me, maybe?” 

“Not everything is about you,” Castiel protests, but it’s somewhat undercut by the softness in his own voice, the way his body responds to Dean’s proximity against his will. He has to be honest, there’s absolutely nothing about what’s happening right now that Castiel is opposed to in any way. 

Dean leans in, touching the tip of his nose to Castiel’s, and with a _very_ slight whimper of interest, Castiel’s eyelids flutter shut. But Dean doesn’t kiss him, just laughs a little and steps away, _with_ Castiel’s phone. He pokes at the screen a few times (while Castiel watches in indignant silence) before offering it back.

“There. My number. It’s under ‘Mr. Christmas,’” Dean says brightly, winking at Castiel before grabbing the rest of his stuff and heading for the front door. “Text me tomorrow when you’re ready to shop. Oh, and by the way, your car is out front. Keys are in the bowl in the hall. Tires are on the house—your dad does Bobby’s books and he owed him one—I don’t ask questions. I put ‘em on real good for you, figured you might need a reliable escape from this place tonight.”

“Wait—escape? From what?” 

Dean turns around, a slow smile spreading across his face. “I thought that’s why you were asking me to hang,” he says. “Anna’s baby shower is tonight—house full of hormonal women with baby fever?”

Castiel’s mouth drops open. “No one told me—”

“Yeah, pretty sure there’s a reason for that,” Dean says with a laugh. “Catch you later, Cas. Good luck with the girls.” 

Just as he’s exiting through the front door, a tiny woman with long brown hair and piercing brown eyes comes barrelling through it, arms laden down with bags. Most of them have decorations spilling out the top, pink and frilly, and Castiel wants exactly _zero_ part of this. 

“Ruby,” Dean sneers, his entire countenance shifting to appear defensive and sour, which automatically makes Castiel bristle, too. He knows who Ruby is (though they’ve never formally met) but not why Dean might dislike her. He wracks his brain to guess and it doesn’t take him long to make the connection. 

_Ruby—_ Anna’s best _(girl)_ friend, but only in recent years. Back when they were in high school, Ruby ran with a very different crowd. The typical “bad girl,” complete with a record, which virtually no one in Incline Village has. And she dated _Sam,_ Sam Winchester _. Yahtzee_. Not his business, but Castiel finds himself intensely curious about what happened there—perhaps he can get the story from Dean later on. 

“Dean,” Ruby replies faux-sweetly, not even bothering to look at him but instead focusing directly on Castiel. “Who the hell are you?” 

Castiel grits his teeth. “Oh, this should be _buckets_ of fun,” he says.

***

The party kicks off by seven and Castiel has loyalty enough to Anna to stay through presents and cake. He’s forced to drop the crib bomb early, which he resents. On the other hand, he does get the tears, and the crib definitely trumps Ruby’s stroller, so Castiel still deems himself the winner. She and Anna are clearly tight, but after several hours in close quarters with the woman, Castiel can’t figure out why. She’s a bitch, and _not_ in the good way.

When Ruby eventually initiates the party games portion of the evening and begins passing around various diapers filled with melted candy bars, Castiel makes his escape. Thankfully, the party was set up in the billiards room down on the second floor, so he has a clear shot to the front door once he sneaks upstairs. Having already sent his raw podcast materials to Charlie, he can’t even beg off to work—he’s got nothing whatsoever to do. Running away will have to suffice.

On the way out, though, he spots Michael loitering in the kitchen. There’s a selection of empty beer bottles lined up in front of him and he looks particularly morose. Eyeing the door, Castiel vaguely considers bolting, but in the end, his common decency wins out. While he and Michael have never been close—they’re just two very different people—he’s still his brother and Castiel does care about him. 

“Anything I can do?” Castiel asks, circling the island to face Michael and his mess. “Want company?” 

“Nah,” Michael tells him, swilling the last drops from his current bottle and moving right on to the next. “Just...thinking about finances. I’d hoped to be able to get a mortgage pre-approval and give the paperwork to Anna for Christmas, but…” Michael gestures around vaguely. “The economy, the uncertainty of small and unproven businesses, especially restaurants.” He shakes his head. “Let’s just say, the number I was approved for won’t go far in Incline Village. Or anywhere in Tahoe, for that matter.” As he talks, Michael taps anxiously at an envelope sitting next to him on the counter. 

“Is that it? May I?” 

Michael shrugs and slides the envelope across to Castiel, who opens and unfolds its contents with trepidation. This isn’t the sort of problem that can be fixed with a pep talk, but apparently, he’s going to try. When Castiel sees the numbers on the page, though, he can’t help but laugh.

“Michael,” he chastises. “You are...ridiculous.” Michael looks affronted, so Castiel barrels on. “You were approved for a three hundred and fifty thousand dollar mortgage. There are _plenty_ of lovely houses in that price range nearby. You’ve been living with our parents for far too long.”

Michael just shrugs morosely, so Castiel removes his bottle from his hand to make him pay attention. “I’m serious, Michael. In Chicago, I live in a one-bedroom apartment in a highrise. My entire place would fit in the kitchen and living room here. _Most_ people don’t live like this, you know.”

Sighing, Michael accepts the beer back when Castiel offers. “Anna deserves better,” is all he says.

“Won’t catch me arguing that point, but that’s solely about _you_ and not where you choose to live,” Castiel says, lightening the dig with a smile. Taking pity on his brother, he adds, “I know for a fact that right now, Anna cares most about having her own space, not living the luxury lake life. You can always visit here if you’re looking for that, anyway.” 

“This is true,” Michael relents, spinning the bottle on the counter. He looks up, far too serious, as always. “Thank you, Castiel.” 

“Of course,” Castiel replies with a nod as he heads for the front door, intent on actually leaving this time. “I’m running to the liquor store, I’ll be sure to refresh your stash.”

“That would be even more appreciated than the unsolicited advice,” Michael calls after him.

***

The trip into town goes more quickly than Castiel anticipated. Although, how much time did he really think he could spend in a liquor store? Short of attempting to drink as many bottles as possible and perhaps joining Ruby in being branded Incline Village’s resident delinquent, there’s not exactly a surplus of things to do. Even with some excessive dawdling, Castiel’s finished shopping and loading his purchases into the back of his SUV less than an hour after leaving the house. He leans against the car, texting Michael for an update and disappointed to find that the girls have apparently settled in to chat, with no sign of wrapping up anytime soon.

Glancing around for something to do, Castiel briefly considers heading over to the Roadhouse before his eyes land on something infinitely more interesting. Just down the block and across the street sits an attractive log and stone building with a large, lit sign out front that proclaims it to be the local Fire Department, proudly serving Incline Village and Crystal Bay since 1959. 

_Interesting,_ Castiel thinks. He knows that there are a couple of stations scattered around the area, and he isn’t even sure if this is the one Dean volunteers his time at. Despite that, Castiel finds himself craning his neck to squint through the dark at the cars parked in the lot to the left of the building. Unfortunately, he doesn’t spot Dean’s truck. 

He hesitates for a moment, slapping his phone against his palm before deciding, _fuck it, Charlie’s right._ Seeing “Mr. Christmas” at the top of his message window makes Castiel smile, and he sends off a—hopefully—casual, _not_ desperate text. Very quickly, he remembers that Dean doesn’t _have_ his number and won’t know who the hell is texting him.

_Castiel: is station 11 yours?_

_Castiel: this is Castiel by the way_

_Castiel: you probably guessed that_

_Castiel: or perhaps you didn’t_ 😫

_Castiel: I apologize, i’m very bored. Don’t make me go home_

_Dean: hey, sunshine_

_Castiel: hello, Dean._

_Dean: u nearby?_

_Castiel: liquor store_

_Dean: that tracks. walk over i’ll come out_

_Thank God,_ Castiel thinks, deciding to blame his excitement about this new development on his extreme lack of interest in returning home. If he chooses to ignore the way that explanation completely fails to address the damn bats _(that may actually now be condors)_ in his stomach again, well. That’s nobody’s business but his own. He walks the short distance down the street.

As he approaches, Castiel can’t help but appreciate how _nice_ the firehouse is. It’s definitely been renovated since he was here last. Several giant glass and steel doors dominate the front of the building, but the rest is framed by wooden logs. It’s a lot of character (and money) for what amounts to a functional public service building, but such is Incline Village’s way. 

The bay doors stay down, Dean stepping out through the main entrance just as Castiel makes it across the parking lot. He’s wearing navy uniform cargo pants and a matching navy tee, his outfit finished off by a lightweight parka that features the fire department’s crest on the breast. With his carefully styled hair and model-good looks, Castiel will never again question why fire departments sell calendars. Hell, he’d buy twelve months of just Dean wearing that parka, and what does that say about him?

“Hey there,” Dean says, flashing Castiel a ridiculously genuine smile ( _definitely birds, now)._ “I’m glad you messaged.”

“I thought it might be a long shot,” Castiel admits, gesturing towards all the parked cars in their respective spaces. “I didn’t see your truck.” 

At that, Dean’s eyes light up, his entire face transforming into a kid on Christmas morning who has just seen the presents under the tree. “I drove my other ride,” Dean tells him, grabbing Castiel’s hand and dragging him around the side of the building. They walk swiftly down the line of vehicles, all the way to the last one on the end. Castiel doesn’t even care what they’re going to see at this point, because Dean’s hand fits _exceptionally_ well in his own and it’s giving him Very Terrible Thoughts about what else that hand could feel good doing.

When Dean stops short, Castiel nearly runs into him. They’re standing in front of a sleek, black monstrosity that Castiel recognizes as a vintage Chevy. He’s not exactly a car guy, but he did once date a man who was into flashy toys and muscle cars. Certain things rub off. 

Including, apparently, Castiel’s affinity for such a nice specimen—he has to admit, Dean’s kept her pristine, and she’s _very_ sexy. Recently washed and waxed even with the winter salt and dirt kicking up from the roads, her shiny chrome finishes flash under the streetlights and the impeccable leather interior looks soft and inviting. Dean hasn’t dropped his hand either, and the mix of _those_ thoughts and the car—they’re a tumultuous, exciting mix that Castiel isn’t used to having inside of his very boring head. 

“She’s beautiful,” he murmurs, and means it. “Wish you could take me for a ride tonight.” Castiel uses his free hand to brush fingers gently over the glossy black paint before looking up at Dean. He expects to see pride, as this vehicle is clearly important to him, but Dean isn’t looking at the car at all. He’s laser-focused on Castiel, looking about as turned on as Castiel feels.

“You like her?” he asks quietly, voice lower than usual and rough, and Castiel swallows. 

“Yes,” he replies.

“Wanna see the backseat?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Castiel replies, not waiting for Dean to open the door before doing it himself and sliding inside. He has to release Dean’s hand to do so, but as Dean gets into the car behind him and slams the door shut, Castiel takes it again quickly.

That amuses Dean, who looks down at their joined hands and then up at Castiel, quirking an eyebrow. “Maybe you and me got different definitions of what ‘parking’ is,” he says with a smirk. 

“I like your hands,” Castiel admits, not even sure why _that’s_ the thing that comes out of his mouth. It’s not as chilly out of the wind, and he has some very specific ideas on how they can warm things up even faster. 

“I like your eyes,” Dean replies, touching the side of Castiel’s face, letting his fingers run down over the coarse stubble on his jaw. He needs to shave. “And your peach fuzz.”

“Unzip your parka,” Castiel demands, “I _really_ like your chest. And your arms.” 

Dean complies with a happy grin, shrugging out of the coat completely, his eyes shining. Castiel can’t help it, he looks so adorable and tempting, like that firefighter calendar he was fantasizing about come to life. He squeezes Dean’s bicep and leans forward to kiss him, their lips meeting rough and sweet. Dean kisses back enthusiastically, cupping the side of Castiel’s head and licking into his mouth without hesitation. 

When Castiel shifts forward, getting up onto his knees to push Dean back against the door, Dean’s all too happy to drag him down into his lap. They make out like teenagers, windows steaming up and Castiel hard and wet in his pants, grinding against some major proof that Dean is in a very similar situation. 

“Won’t they miss you inside?” Castiel gasps during a moment when they break for air. Dean barely takes the reprieve—his hands are on Castiel’s neck, tilting his head to the side so that he can nip a trail down over his collarbone. He has to clear his throat to speak, which is all kinds of hot and has Castiel fisting hands in his t-shirt, dragging him up to kiss again.

“Nah. Not unless—” 

Before he can finish his sentence, the pager clipped to Dean’s hip clicks open, playing a series of loud, beeping tones and then static. There’s silence for a moment, Castiel hovering awkwardly over Dean’s lap as he freezes and listens, and then a woman’s voice comes over the frequency.

_“Station Eleven, respond. 857 Rosewood Circle at AJ Manufacturing. An automatic fire alarm.”_

“Fuck,” Dean growls, his head tipping back to knock against the car window. He struggles to a sitting position, not yet pushing Castiel away. “Sorry,” he says, and he truly looks like no one is more apologetic about this than him. 

“It’s alright,” Castiel tells him, carefully climbing off and following as Dean extricates himself from the car. “For what it’s worth, this was an excellent way to kill time. Far superior to tasting baby food and trying to guess the flavor.”

Dean makes a face. “Uh, you’re welcome, then,” he replies, squeezing Castiel’s hand briefly as they walk to the front of the building, both of them doing some awkward tucking along the way. Dean pauses by the bay doors, even though Castiel can see the overhead lights flickering on inside and people filtering in around the trucks to get into their waiting gear. “Text me about food shopping?”

“I will,” Castiel replies, beginning to back across the parking lot as Dean does the same towards the front door of the station. “You should go.” 

“I believe you this time.” Dean flashes him that irresistible smile once more, and Castiel can _feel_ how hard he’s smiling back. _Lord, what is happening to him?_ He hurries away, but then— “Hey, Cas!”

He turns around in time to catch Dean flying into his arms, so hard he nearly barrels Castiel over. Dean’s kissing him, hard and fast and Castiel tries to kiss back but Dean’s gone just as quickly, running for the opening bay doors while looking back over his shoulder and laughing. 

Castiel touches fingers to his stubble-burned lips and waves back.

He stands by his SUV and watches as the engine and its flashing red lights leave the station and disappear down the road. When it’s out of sight, he sits in his own car for a long time after. He can still _feel_ Dean’s mouth on his, Dean’s hands all over his body, hear the sound of his laugh, and see the mischievous twinkle in his eye.

He still has the butterflies...bats... _birds_ in his stomach.

 _Mr. Christmas,_ Castiel thinks, snorting at how stupid the name is and then realizing (somewhat against his will) that Dean has wound up giving him the _one_ thing he never wanted. _Without_ even realizing it was exactly what he needed. Dean _is_ some kind of perverted Santa, after all. 

More confused than ever and having no idea what to do with _any_ of his varying thoughts, Castiel reluctantly starts the car and heads for home. Nothing has changed, so why is he suddenly _thinking_ like it has?

Castiel flexes his hands on the wheel and scowls. Nothing _changes,_ people don’t change. If he says it enough times, maybe he’ll start to believe it again, because it’s only been two days and absolutely nothing about Castiel feels the same.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next (and final) time: Family bonding + missing Dean hours. It might be Lust, Actually. Dean knows his meats, there's a party that changes everything, also Dean has some important questions.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has been following along, I really appreciate each one of you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Snow is falling softly, not yet sticking to the ground when they step outside the store. Pushing the cart over towards the car, Dean clears his throat, bumping his shoulder roughly against Castiel’s. “Can I tell you something?” he asks._   
>  _Castiel raises his eyebrows, nodding, feeling the heavy flakes on his face and watching them settle gently in Dean’s hair. He looks so ridiculously domestic and adorable, and something inside Castiel aches. Maybe, just maybe, a tiny part of him wishes it could be like this all of the time. Naturally, he doesn’t voice any of that._   
>  _“Of course, Dean,” is all he says._   
>  _Dean pauses, staring at the ground for a minute as he brings the cart to a stop next to the Chevy. He chews his lip. “I really like you, Cas.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I gotta tell y'all, this was ROUGH for me to finish, especially on a deadline. I have been struggling so much with writing after everything that's happened, and I really, really needed the interaction on a WIP to get me through it. Nothing I can say here will properly convey the overwhelming gratitude I have for those who followed along for this short ride (some who don't typically read WIPs, bless), and it made a HUGE difference for me. This fic is better, longer, more detailed, and more fleshed out because of you. It is finished by Christmas because of you. Fic authors don't get paid, except like this, and it means the whole world to me, especially because this was something I "had" to do. THANK YOU. I love you all.
> 
> And ftr, I'm just glad some of y'all enjoyed this--I really needed to write something where the world revolved around Cas after all that disrespect. Where he gets to have it all, like he deserves. I'm sure he comes off a little self-centered and maybe a little ooc, but it's intentional. This is a Cas who has always been loved, who has always felt like HE is important, like he matters. His wants and needs, not just what he can do for others. And this is a Dean who sees him (and all his imperfections) and wants to give him the world anyway.
> 
> Warning for more than one instance of smut in this chapter.

The next day turns out to be a bust for food shopping, because Castiel’s father decides to go full-hog on the “Christmas Vacation” recreation they’re apparently attempting. It’s Wednesday, and the party isn’t until Friday (Christmas Eve), so Dean assures Castiel it’s no problem—they can go tomorrow—if he still wants to, that is. 

_I do,_ Castiel assures Dean via text, following that up with a detailed account of Zachariah’s plans for the day and an open invitation for Dean to join them. That last addition is nothing but desperate hope on his part—there’s no way anyone not legally obligated is voluntarily signing up for Novak family chaos.

_Dean: trust that i’d pay actual money to watch your dad try and cut down a tree, but i gotta move stuff around to free up tomorrow. Bobby has cars at the shop that need last-min holiday tune-ups_

_Castiel: does a holiday tune-up come with something more? Extra time on Santa’s lap?_

_Dean: for you, i’d make sure of it ;)_

_Dean: knew you wanted to sit in my lap_

_Dean: and yes, actually. christmas cookies, homemade. plus i like to throw in one of those gingerbread air fresheners. If the customer is looking super grinchy, i might even sing_

_Castiel: see you tomorrow, Dean_

_Dean: looking forward to it, Cas_ 😉

Unfortunately for Castiel, he wasn’t remotely exaggerating about his family’s plans. The list of activities for the day starts with a group trip to cut down a fresh Christmas tree from a tree farm nearby. Followed, of course, by a full afternoon and evening of decorating both it and the house as a family unit. 

Because this is a Novak activity, the whole thing includes saws, a sled, lots of rope, and a near-trip to the ER. Perhaps that’s a _touch_ dramatic, but the tree does wind up falling directly onto Zachariah as everyone stands by and watches it happen. As their father flails beneath the pine needles and on top of a pitiful half-inch of melting snow, neither Michael nor Castiel jumps at the chance to help. To be fair, their faithful patriarch doesn’t _actually_ seem to be injured, and the risk of getting sap all over their hands to pull the thing off hardly seems worth it. 

Hovering over the whole mess and peering down, Michael strokes his chin thoughtfully. “But if we lift the tree off, how will you learn a lesson for next time? Seems like typical socialist handout nonsense, if you ask me,” Michael deadpans. That’s his favorite ( _and only_ ) joke, ever since Zachariah proudly slapped a “People for Bernie” sticker onto his vehicle last spring.

Castiel nods, very serious. “Rescue a man from beneath a fallen tree, he’ll have one happy Christmas. Force him to do it himself, he’ll learn the true meaning of the holidays. Which we all know leads to protesting important causes such as boycotting Starbucks for their slanderous removal of “Merry Christmas” from the design of the cup.” 

_“Boys,"_ Naomi snaps. “Stop that and help your father. He has a bad back.” 

After a brief argument, both brothers end up shamed by thirty-six-week-pregnant Anna. Huffing “For fuck’s sake,” loudly, she comes to her father-in-law’s rescue with very little fanfare. Castiel should probably feel badly, but as he watches Anna try to pick lint fuzz from her fingertips, he’s mostly just glad it wasn’t him. The tree weighs a whole fifty pounds total, _if_ that _,_ so of course Zachariah is fine—just a little sticky and muddy. He’s in as good a mood as ever, brushing himself off and tugging the sled towards the bailer like nothing happened.

Sufficiently kowtowed, Michael and Castiel work together to strap their prize to the roof of the car without complaint, and then they all head to the grocery store for much-needed sustenance. 

Despite the fact that the back of Zachariah’s clothes are caked with dirt, he has absolutely no shame about it. Like the dad he is, he walks the store aisles proudly, throwing gourmet appetizers and snacks into the cart. To see him, you’d think being covered in mud, pine needles, and sap is some meritorious badge of honor. For a dad at Christmastime, Castiel supposes that may be true. Meanwhile, he and Michael bicker over eggnog brands and whether to get pizza rolls or bagel bites—the _real_ issues. 

The rest of the later afternoon and evening pass in a blur of Christmas lights, decorations, food, drink, and laughs. Castiel doesn’t remember the last time he felt so relaxed or just _happy_ to be. Tipsy and silly, he and Michael haul up box after box of holiday items from the storage space on the lower level of the house and go through them in the living room. Boxes upon boxes of ornaments made as kids, Christmas pictures and memories, and other nostalgic reminders of days past. 

By the time the tree is up, straightened, and decorated—seven feet tall and shining brightly against the sliding glass backdrop of the forest and the lake—Castiel is exhausted. Pleasantly so, though, compared to the usual kind he feels after spending hours hunched over his computer at his desk. Instead of the burn behind his eyes and the ache in his back and neck, Castiel just feels... _tired._

Stripped down to boxers, he slides happily in between his Batman sheets and prepares to drift off to sleep. There are choruses of carols still ringing in his ears and lines of twinkle lights dancing behind his lids. It’s the most content he’s been in ages, and Castiel cannot deny—part of that is due to _Dean._

He _missed_ him today and tonight—a man he’s known for the blink of an eye compared to the entirety of his lifespan thus far. He thought about him frequently. While out with his family, while decorating the tree—all despite the fact that he was having a wonderful time. As silly as it might seem, Castiel often found himself thinking, _if only Dean were here, things would be picture-perfect._

For a man who hardly even believes in such things, this was certainly brand-new territory to wander through. Even still, Castiel drifts off to sleep with visions of sugarplum-colored lips dancing in his head and a smile on his face.

***

After brunch as a group the next morning, Castiel’s family members split off to separate corners of the house to go about their own activities. Napping, for the majority of them, though he’s never seen Naomi nap. In fact, Castiel’s not sure he’s ever seen her _sleep_. She’s probably taking inventory of alcohol or party paraphernalia in the basement—doesn’t matter, just so long as she’s occupied.

It’s the exit strategy Castiel was counting on, working exactly as he predicted. While he certainly doesn’t need permission to hang out with Dean, the _last_ thing he wants is for a member of his well-meaning family to catch sight of the man and waylay them both. Which they would. Or worse, invite themselves along just to needle at and/or shove him into Dean’s lap again. 

He retreats to his bedroom under the pretense of napping too, shooting off a text to Dean that reminds him (for the third time) not to knock or ring the front doorbell. Having showered and shaved earlier—the peach fuzz thing was endearing, but Castiel’s not trying to look like he’s straight out of the apocalypse—he dresses quickly before checking himself over carefully in the mirror. 

It’s not _quite_ his usual look—a pink, long-sleeved dress shirt over light wash jeans and boots—but he has it on good authority (Anna) that the jeans are a perfect fit and the shirt cuts him just right. According to her, the stitching accentuates the muscles in his arms and the narrowness of his waist. He trialed the outfit earlier, purporting to want her opinion on it as a contender for the party tomorrow. At the time, the excuse made sense, although it’s since dawned on Castiel that she’s definitely going to realize what he was doing when he arrives home in Dean’s car later, still wearing it.

 _Dean’s car._ The thought makes Castiel shiver with anticipation—is it wrong that he’s hoping Dean will bring the big black Chevy and not his truck? The car is just _so—_ well, it’s hot. Castiel bites his lip, splashing some cologne onto his neck and then immediately panicking. That’s going to taste _disgusting, fuck._ He rushes into the bathroom to scrub it off, which, fantastic, now he’ll just taste like soap. 

So far, this is going great. Castiel hasn’t even left the house and he’s already ruining their theoretical make-out session. Speaking of which…Perhaps—if they’re going to allow themselves to get distracted—they should do so _prior_ to shopping _,_ so as to not wind up with groceries that could spoil or melt. Or worse, take up all the room in the back seat. 

How very practical of him.

While in the bathroom, Castiel second-guesses the shirt again, turning around to check it out from the back. It’s very _pink._ Honestly, he has no substantive clue about these things, but Anna bought him this particular shirt last Christmas (he won’t tell her he cut the tags off today) and she’s fully invested in this Dean situation. Based on that information alone, Castiel’s fairly certain she wouldn’t steer him wrong. Not on _fashion._

It’s not as if he has a better option, anyway. Dean’s already seen him in a ratty t-shirt and a more subdued button-down—twice. He’s also seen him drunk and entirely mussed, so simply being sober, awake, _and_ put-together for once ( _there’s_ gel _in his hair_ ), that should be jarring enough. 

On his way across his room, Castiel picks up his usual trenchcoat and considers it briefly before draping it back over the chair. Instead, he selects the leather jacket he bought on a whim several summers ago. That was when he was in the habit of riding frequently on the back of Balthazar’s motorcycle. It’s not an overly practical jacket for the weather, but Castiel happens to know that objectively, he looks damn good in it.

_If there ever was a time._

He chooses the leather one.

The curtains to his balcony are still closed, so Castiel yanks them across with a flourish before opening the door. What he’s _not_ expecting is for Dean Winchester to be _once again_ on the other side of the glass, fist poised to knock. 

“Motherfu—,” Castiel yelps, cutting himself off halfway through the word in an effort to _not_ wake his occupied family. He covers his face briefly, taking a deep breath before unlocking the door and glaring at Dean. “Jesus, Dean,” he says, and then warns, “Keep your voice down.”

“Sorry,” Dean whispers, though he doesn’t look sorry at all, nor does he remotely try to hide the way his gaze sweeps over Castiel’s body in satisfaction. At the slight glaze Dean’s eyes take on, Castiel decides that both the pink and the leather were the right choices. 

“I thought I told you to wait in the car.”

“No such,” Dean protests. “You said don’t knock or ring the front doorbell. I texted you!”

Castiel pats his pockets before realizing that his phone is still lying on his bed, where he’d left it while changing. The illuminated screen confirms Dean isn’t lying, not that Castiel is _actually_ upset Dean is in his room. However, they do have to get back out now without being seen.

“Why are we sneaking around, anyway? Did the tides change? Am I out? Naomi find someone better for her hot gay son? Gotta admit, Tahoe’s ripe for the picking in that department.” Dean’s teasing, Castiel can tell, nonchalant as his tone is. As he talks, he wanders Castiel’s room, admiring the family pictures hanging on the walls and his very small shelf of trophies from Model U.N. and Mock Debate, like that isn’t the most humiliating thing he could still have lying around.

Castiel snorts and tries to pretend he doesn’t care what Dean sees. “Quite the opposite,” he says. “They’re all still very intent on shoving us together.” 

“Holy shit, _Batman_ sheets!” 

The trophies suddenly seem impressive. Boast-worthy, even. _How could he have forgotten the sheets?!_

“Um…”

“Dude, these are _the coolest_ ,” Dean continues, lifting the black comforter with its yellow Batman logo plastered across the front to check out the sheets approvingly. “Damn, Cas. And here I was, thinking you couldn’t be more perfect.” 

Opening his mouth to protest Dean’s mocking—with... _something_ , Castiel hasn’t figured that out yet—it snaps shut again when Dean glances up and Castiel registers his expression. He looks...sincere. Castiel furrows his brow. “Uh...thank you?” he ventures.

“Damn right,” Dean replies with a decisive nod. He drops the bedclothes and heads for the door, smacking Castiel lightly on the stomach as he passes. “Batman is fuckin’ awesome.” 

Castiel hurries after, barely stopping himself from asking if Dean would like to see how the sheets look from in between. 

***

The ride to the grocery store is _charged,_ to say the least. Castiel’s earlier musings about potentially blowing off some steam prior to shopping were at least forty percent joke, forty percent fantasy, or so he thought. It would appear that in fact, he was dangerously close to the truth, and on the exact same wavelength as Dean.

Dean spends most of the ride staring at Castiel, no different than when he’d picked him alongside the highway. If possible, he spends _less_ time watching the road today, which is both nerve-wracking and thrilling. Castiel’s hands clench and unclench on his thighs, unsure as he is what the hell to do with them. He could touch Dean, but he’s relatively sure they’ve already expended their luck regarding Dean’s lack of interest in looking where they’re going. At this point, Castiel should probably just be glad that the Chevy hasn’t encountered a tree.

“You look fuckin’ hot,” Dean finally says, while they’re stopped at a red light. “Dude, who _are_ you? Pink and leather? Don’t get me wrong, I am the opposite of complaining, but every other time I’ve seen you, your vibe was like...super dreamy tax accountant.” 

“Fuck you,” Castiel retorts lightly, laughing and shoving at Dean’s arm. “No, well, if I’m being honest, the tax accountant _is_ my standard look. I just…” He dips his chin down, waving an arm across the length of his body before letting it slap down against the seat. “I don’t know. I look stupid, I know.” 

Dean barks a laugh, stepping on the gas before throwing the blinker and turning into the large parking lot of the store they’re headed to visit. “Do you listen? I told you how you look, why would I lie?”

“I don’t know, you want in my pants?” 

Laughing again, Dean nods enthusiastically, cheeks pinking up. “Well, there is that,” he agrees. “But also, I’m Mr. Christmas. I’m fuckin’ _Santa,_ pal. Santa does not tell lies.” 

“Does Santa say the f-word?”

“Hey, we all have vices. Milk, cookies, and cuss words. And pie. Anyone who leaves pie for this Santa gets double presents.” 

“I’ll remember that for bribery reasons later. Um, Dean?” Castiel suddenly takes notice of the fact that they’re not pulling into a spot and instead driving around to the rear of the building. Behind the store is a totally deserted alley—not even a loading dock, must be on the other side—bordered by a dense woodline. Dean pulls up in between a dual set of dumpsters and kills the engine. “What are we doing?” 

“I don’t know about you,” Dean says, stretching luxuriously. The t-shirt layered underneath his flannel and canvas jacket rides up just the _slightest_ bit over his stomach. Castiel eyes it like it’s something forbidden and gulps, feeling warm. “But I’m not gonna be able to focus on charcuterie when you’re next to me, looking like a snack.” 

Castiel’s face must do something awkward, because Dean bursts out laughing. “I’m sorry,” he adds. “I’ve been sitting on that joke since you agreed to come on this trip with me.”

Cracking a smile, Castiel reaches out and boldly drags him in by the collar. “I’m just glad you weren’t expecting me to reciprocate. I generally steer away from meat-puns on the first date, it’s considered tacky.” Belatedly, he realizes what he’s just said and tries to gloss over it by leaning in for a kiss.

Dean is not so easily distracted, sticking two fingers in between their mouths and pushing Castiel back slightly. “Date?” he repeats, looking incredibly pleased. 

Sighing, Castiel shrugs. “I suppose,” he relents. Dean hangs over him, temptingly close but not narrowing the gap, and Castiel is not a patient man when he’s made up his mind about what he wants. “So, am I getting a blow job or what?” 

Grinning, Dean leans in and captures his mouth. 

_Forget the blow job,_ Castiel thinks. _We can just do this._

It’s easy to melt into Dean, to get lost in touching his face, his arms, his chest and his back—exploring planes and curves and angles with his own hands. Castiel kicks his legs up across the bench seat and Dean straddles him with one leg in the footwell—hey, the car is only so big. It’s hard to care, though (that the space is small, that they’re in _public,_ that he’s supposed to be pulling _away_ from Dean and not getting closer) because every single kiss is better than the last. 

“You’re soft today,” Dean murmurs, nuzzling his own shaven cheek along Castiel’s jaw. The gesture is terribly tender and not at all hot-and-bothered hookup, which is confusing to Castiel’s too-logical brain and very-turned-on body. He grunts in response and Dean cups the back of his head, kissing him long and slow and deep before shifting back on his heels. “About that request,” he says.

Before Castiel quite knows what’s happening (that last kiss was _dizzying)_ , his belt is undone and his underwear is askew. All of that culminates in Dean wrapping a hand around his quickly-hardening cock, making him arch and groan.

“Right here?” he pants, tipping his head back against the foggy car window. The cool air contrasts with Dean’s hot palm when he strokes— _delicious_. “That doesn’t seem— _ungh._ ”

_Words, words are hard._

“Right here,” Dean affirms, just before dipping his head and swallowing Castiel down without warning. 

Unprepared, Castiel nearly hits the roof. It’s only because Dean is ready with a forearm across his belly that he doesn’t wind up gagging and choking (or so Castiel presumes, the other thing is theoretically possible, too), hollowing his cheeks and sucking like nothing happened at all. 

Eyes rolling back in his head, Castiel’s hand slams against the window before groping around for something to grasp at and failing. _Stupid old cars,_ he thinks. _Don’t even have grab bars._ From where he’s going to town on Castiel’s cock, Dean seems to sense his problem, reaching out blindly to curl fingers around Castiel’s wrist and relocate his hand to the back of his head.

“Oh, God,” Castiel cries out, tightening his fingers in Dean’s silky-soft locks. 

As Dean finds a rhythm, Castiel can’t help but move his hips, though he does try his best to avoid thrusting—it’s only polite. Dean’s mouth is as talented at this as it is with kissing, as skilled and sweet as it is beautiful. Between his legs, things are hot and wet and messy, and Dean himself is relentless. His tongue curls around Castiel’s length, darts into the slit, leaving Castiel sweating and shaking and yanking Dean’s hair harder than is probably polite.

“I’m close,” he manages to whisper, when the heat building in his belly becomes too much to bear, and Dean just nods, doubling down on the sucking action. _“Fuck,”_ Castiel swears, coming hard down Dean’s throat and curling his body around him, feeling the way Dean’s back muscles tighten up at nearly the same time. 

That doesn’t seem like a good thing, so Castiel’s rushing to check on him as soon as he can breathe and form words. “Dean, are you—” He starts, but then Dean sits up, still licking the corners of his mouth and looking blissfully sated. Smiling, he flips open the glove box and pulls out a tissue to use to wipe off before tucking himself away. “Oh,” Castiel says, pleasantly surprised. “I would have—” 

“Later,” Dean says with a wink, pressing a last hard kiss to Castiel’s lips before collapsing back into his seat. “Whew,” he adds. “That was awesome.” Before Castiel can even fully zip up his pants, Dean’s already putting the car into gear. “Alright, I’m all about meats and cheeses now. Pastry and crudités. Fuck, I need a snack.” 

***

The actual shopping trip goes very quickly, as Dean knows the store like the back of his hand. While Castiel _is_ useful for crossing off a handful of “don’t bother” items from his mother’s list, that’s nothing he couldn’t have done for Dean via text message. Before they’re even a quarter of the way through, Castiel has figured out that Dean never needed him here at all. This really _is_ a date, and he should have known. 

It’s _nice,_ though, or perhaps that’s the post-orgasm haze coloring things. 

No, definitely nice, and Castiel feels some type of way when things between them are just _easy._ There’s nothing to blame, now. There’s no unresolved sexual tension, they should have long run out of casual topics to discuss, and they don’t _really_ know each other. Despite all that, being with Dean _is_ easy. It _feels good._ From their free-flowing conversations to the way they move around each other, to the strange, innate awareness each of them has to the other in their space. 

In the checkout line, Dean flirts with Castiel relentlessly, picking up a yarn necklace from the counter display and draping it around Castiel’s neck. The thing is the ultimate in tacky: oversized, _colored_ plastic bulbs strung along it that light up and blink when Dean flips the switch on the battery pack.

“This is perfect,” he says. “For me to reel you in.” Twisting his hand into the necklace’s length, he beckons Castiel closer. Right there, in the middle of the store, Castiel goes. He _knows_ he’s smiling like an idiot when he does, but in his defense, Dean is extremely difficult to resist.

The kiss they share this time is soft, chaste, and Castiel almost likes it more than any of the others they’ve exchanged. _Almost_.

Dean buys him the necklace.

Snow is falling softly, not yet sticking to the ground when they step outside the store. Pushing the cart over towards the car, Dean clears his throat, bumping his shoulder roughly against Castiel’s. “Can I tell you something?” he asks.

Castiel raises his eyebrows, nodding, feeling the heavy flakes on his face and watching them settle gently in Dean’s hair. He looks so ridiculously domestic and adorable, and something inside Castiel aches. Maybe, just maybe, a _tiny_ part of him wishes it could be like this all of the time. Naturally, he doesn’t voice any of that. 

“Of course, Dean,” is all he says.

Dean pauses, staring at the ground for a minute as he brings the cart to a stop next to the Chevy. He chews his lip. “I really like you, Cas.” 

It’s a simple turn of phrase, but somehow, Castiel can tell that wasn’t an easy thing for Dean to admit. While his actions have never been anything less than obvious, equally so to Castiel is the fact that _actions_ are how Dean prefers to speak. It’s also not hard to read between the lines that Dean himself has some fears, here—everyone leaves him. His parents, Sam. Various exes. This is a limb he’s going out on knowing full-well that not only does Castiel _have_ to leave, but that he _wants_ to go.

It’s almost painful to contemplate what exactly Dean might be feeling that led him to put those feelings out there anyway.

Castiel steps closer. This is where he should set limits. Where he should tell Dean that it’s not a good time, that _neither_ one of them is in a place to throw away their life for the other. That this is the sort of road those “love at first sight” idiots wander down and then later regret it.

Instead, he says, “Dean?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“Would you be my date to my parents’ Christmas party tomorrow evening?” 

Dean grins, and granted, he does do a _lot_ of smiling ( _and_ Castiel hasn’t known him for that long), but he’s pretty damn sure this is the brightest one yet. 

“I’d love to, sunshine.” 

“Dean,” Castiel adds, heart thudding in his chest. “I like you too.” 

***

“You have to.”

“I will not.”

“Mom says it’s not a choice. Dean is—”

“I don’t care about what poor life choices Dean makes, _I_ will not lower myself to—”

“Just put the damn sweater on and stop complaining, Cas.” Anna sighs, thrusting the knit monstrosity she’s holding in Castiel’s direction for what feels like the thousandth time. “Come on. It’s Christmas, and we’re all miserable.” 

“I see we’ve given up on pretending this isn’t a movie parody,” he grumbles. After another moment’s hesitation (plus Anna poking him _again_ with the grossest present he’s ever received), Castiel snatches the sweater vest from her grasp and retreats into his room.

Looking mournfully down at the scratchy _(barely qualifies as)_ fabric, Castiel supposes he doesn’t really have a choice. _Ugly Sweater Party_ is the name of the game, and it would break his mother’s heart if Castiel insisted on being the exception. No matter _how_ superior he’d look doing so. Glaring into the mirror above his dresser, he tugs on the sweater vest that definitely came from the very back of his father’s closet (and should have stayed there). 

Cream colored, with badly-spaced red piping probably meant to be reminiscent of candy canes, it’s the most geratric thing Castiel has ever put on his body. He’s no Karl Lagerfeld, but the little fashion sense he does possess tells Castiel this is not just a dress faux-pas, it’s basically the definition of humiliating.

Over his left breast, a giant cross-stitch Santa mocks him. Over his right, a garishly-decorated Christmas tree sits. Below the tree are a scattered bunch of stitched toys and gifts, directly mirrored by a smattering of holly berries and the words, “I believe.” Nothing about the sweater inspires Castiel to take that sentiment to heart, of that he is absolutely certain. 

It adds insult to injury that he _finally_ found the perfect shirt to wear, too—a light blue button-down that Anna was saving for a Christmas present but gave to him early for this exact purpose. He has it on _good_ authority that it brings out his eyes, which Dean said he _likes._ Considering all that, Castiel feels he has the right to be indignant that Anna wasn’t more emphatically on his side regarding the sweater-wearing issue. 

Perhaps she just wanted him to have something that looked half-decent underneath all the devastation. Perhaps she’s jealous that his sweater doesn’t make him look like an _actual_ gingerbread house, like hers does.

When Castiel finally (resignedly) exits his room, it’s to the sounds of a party already in full-swing overhead. It seems like this day has flown by, that there were guests pouring through the front door just minutes after Castiel rolled out of bed around ten a.m. In truth, his day has been incredibly busy—Naomi’s pre-party checklist is a torture device that lives in infamy.

The big difference this year is that Castiel volunteered to _help_ with that list of his own free will. To be fair, he had a _reason_ to want to be out and about in the house, keeping himself busy and being useful. Definitely _not_ making excuses to possibly run into someone who was actually being both busy _and_ useful. 

Dean was there in a professional capacity, of course. He had a job to do, but that didn’t mean he didn’t make everything a little brighter by simply being present. Castiel couldn’t help but find reasons to be near him, to watch him, creepy as that might sound (which is why he’s hoping Dean didn’t notice), but Dean just _fits_ so damn well.

There he was, cutting up fruits and vegetables, slicing meats and cheeses before arranging them artfully on platters. Unloading bottles of alcohol, glasses, and setting up the bar. Working with flour smudged across his face and wearing Naomi’s apron and oven mitts as he put the finishing touches on various treats. 

Essentially, moving around Castiel’s childhood home like he was perfectly at ease, like he _belonged_ there. 

Since Dean had catering duties to attend to and Castiel was (theoretically) on house-prep duty, there was hardly any alone time to speak of, definitely not for the two of them. It seemed like all of Castiel’s family members—who were previously so keen on disappearing—now were popping up _everywhere,_ intent on keeping them on-task and apart. 

However (despite the meddlers), just having Dean _there_ for the entire day, seamlessly integrated with his family, was wonderful. It made Castiel smile to see him focused and working, humming along to the radio as he went about his duties. They _did_ manage to steal precious few moments—bumping into each other casually (and not-so-casually—there were two rather intense make-out sessions in the hallway bathroom that Castiel was supposed to be cleaning) throughout the afternoon.

Thinking about Dean now—as Castiel climbs the steps back to where the action is, sweater-vest and all—makes his chest warm and his heart rate increase. He emerges at the top of the stairwell, doing a double-take at what he sees. There are people _everywhere—_ twice the number that were present when he’d run down to his room to freshen up and been waylaid by Anna. 

There are also several smartly-dressed cater-waiters rounding the room with trays of drinks and snacks, although that, Castiel was expecting. In previous years, he found the idea of waiters at a private party pretentious, but today, the extra hired help means that Dean only has to play supervisor. He can therefore spend most of his time enjoying the party (and hopefully, sneaking away with Castiel, who still owes him a very specific favor).

The house looks lovely, though. Lights and greenery everywhere bring an easy sort of cheer, and Castiel notices a few people admiring the boughs he hung. The tree dominates the living room, classically adorned and lit. Soft Christmas music plays over the speakers, and all of the guests in their fancy holiday clothing are like the perfect, crowning touch. It’s a beautiful result, and Castiel is happy for his parents. He spots his mother from across the room, spreading his arms and tilting his head to show both his approval and the stupid outfit. She smiles and blows him a kiss.

“Hey,” Dean says, from Castiel’s left. Snapping his head around, Castiel’s unable to stop the spread of a smile _or_ his subsequent laugh. Not when he pauses to really take in what Dean is wearing. 

“It’s terrible,” he chokes out, between chuckles. His eyes water—the idea of Dean Winchester in an ugly Christmas sweater is hilarious enough, but the _reality_ is simply ludicrous. Especially considering that Dean’s outfit almost definitely came from the same place as Castiel’s, the moth-ridden back of Zachariah’s spare closet. “Oh, Dean, I cannot believe you agreed to this.”

Putting on an indignant expression, Dean strikes a few model poses before turning in a full circle. “I like it,” he says proudly, picking at a loose thread on the hem. “I like the...the flowers.” 

“If you’re referring to the poinsettia blossoms, I will admit that they’re superior to the deranged Santa and Christmas tree I got,” Castiel concedes. “The color-blocking, though.” His eyes water, taking in the way the black, red, and white swatches of color take turns destroying the front of Dean’s shirt, letting his fingers skate lightly over each one. “And you have a _potted_ Christmas tree,” he adds, settling his hand over the design on the top left of Dean’s chest. “ _Two_ of them. And a snowflake. What is the point of the solitary snowflake? 

Dean grins cheekily, stepping closer. “I dunno, but it’s earning me some touch-action from the hottest guy at the party, so I’m kinda hard-pressed to complain.”

Castiel snorts, ignoring the flash of heat he feels at the other man’s proximity and the way Dean’s hand has curled possessively around his waist. “Dean, we’re wearing embroidered synthetics. Neither of us qualifies as attractive at the moment.”

Dragging his lip through his teeth ( _God, who taught him that? They should be first praised and then executed)_ , Dean makes a disappointed noise. “Sure about that?” he asks, jerking his head towards the top of the doorframe they’re still standing in. 

Castiel glances up, registering the mistletoe immediately. “That’s very sneaky,” he says. 

“Uh huh,” Dean agrees. “I taped it there after Anna came through and said you’d be right up. Then I lurked nearby like a creepy flasher, kinda like you’ve been doing to me all day.”

Flushing, Castiel ducks his head, struggling to process all of that but _especially_ the idea that Dean hung the mistletoe specifically for _him._ “I hung a bouquet over the bathroom doorway,” he admits, just to change the subject. “Should make for some interesting encounters for those waiting in line to urinate.” Blowing out a breath, Castiel lifts his head and finds Dean smiling warmly back, clearly amused.

“Cas,” he says, drawing still closer, all the way until their chests touch. “You’re awesome.” 

Castiel kisses him. 

They are in the middle of a party, so this particular press of lips is nothing explicit or particularly involved, but it’s still entirely satisfying. By some mutual, unspoken agreement, they linger together for several long moments before parting. Kissing Dean unexpectedly tends to make Castiel a little dizzy, and if that’s a good excuse to hang onto him and repeat the whole thing one more time, Castiel doesn’t see a problem with that, either.

It’s possible he might have even used the kissing as a segue, an excuse to drag Dean downstairs and into his room for the rest of the night. Except— _someone_ picks that exact moment to interrupt, as Castiel is swiftly learning that every single person he’s related to is wont to do. 

“Cassieeeee!” 

He’s still wrapped up (literally, his arm is around Dean’s neck) in kissing Dean, but Castiel would know that voice anywhere. Unfortunately for him, it’s not attached to someone who gives up easily. Regretfully, he pecks Dean’s mouth again softly before pulling away, making sure to look him in the eyes. “Later,” he says quietly.

“That’s our official slogan,” Dean quips. His palm slips from Castiel’s hip to wind their hands together, and that’s nearly as nice, though it is a little— _much_ for their current status.

“Cassie, bro, long time no see!”

“Gabriel,” Castiel replies with a sigh, turning to greet his cousin and immediately being yanked into a hug. “Oof.” When he lets go, Castiel notes that Gabriel’s sweater puts everyone else’s to shame. It has actual flashing lights _and_ jingle bells, and a little speaker that looks suspiciously functional and probably plays Christmas music. He’s definitely not going to draw attention to it. “Long time, no see. How are you? When did you get into town?”

“Just rolled up a few minutes ago,” Gabriel says with a grin, taking a noisy sip from the colorful drink he’s holding. He’s short—barely up to Castiel’s shoulders, and he stands on his toes to try and look around the room. “My wife is around here somewhere— _and_ my boytoy,” he adds with a wink. 

“You haven’t changed at all,” Castiel observes, biting back a smile. 

“I’m going to grab us drinks,” Dean tells him, squeezing his hand once before taking off for the bar. Again, it’s a nice gesture, but it discomfits Castiel slightly—does Dean even know what he likes? He didn’t ask, and that’s such a...a _couple-y_ gesture. Still, it’s Christmas Eve and this isn’t the time for nitpicking. Castiel shakes off his concern and turns his attention to his cousin.

“I saw that,” Gabriel says knowingly, waggling his eyebrows. _Of course he did._ “Trouble in paradise?” 

“No,” Castiel snaps back. “We’re not—it’s just not like that.” He works his jaw and averts his eyes, wishing he had a drink or something to fiddle with. 

“Hmm,” Gabriel hums, narrowing his eyes at Castiel skeptically. “Does _he_ know that? ‘Cause it kinda seems like—”

“Whew,” Dean interrupts, appearing back at Castiel’s side like magic, clutching two uncapped beers. He holds one out to Castiel, who tries not to appear _too_ disappointed. 

“Thank you,” he says politely, if a bit stiff.

“Skipped the line,” Dean proclaims proudly. “Perks of being the boss.” 

“Did you want something else, Cas?” Gabriel asks loudly, _pointedly,_ and Castiel glares. Of all the times for his troublemaker cousin to show up, this would, of course, be the moment. 

“Don’t you have other relatives to annoy?”

“No,” Gabriel replies brightly, unbothered by Castiel’s petulance. “Hey, Cas, you should tell your man if there’s something else you want.”

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks, touching his arm gently. “I thought—hey, it’s no problem. Happy to grab you something else. Whatever you want, sunshine.” 

Dean’s sweetness, his perpetual optimism and hopeful persistence in _being_ whatever it is he wants to be to Castiel makes him feel like absolute shit. Like the crummiest, most ungrateful person ever. But he can’t change reality, and that’s the crux of his issue, isn’t it? It’s not that he wanted a spritzer instead of a beer. It’s not that he _doesn’t_ want Dean’s kindness or to take him downstairs and ravage him.

It’s that, despite _all_ of this, despite everything they’ve done, _nothing has changed._ Their relationship has a deadline, and something about that is just _not_ clicking for Dean. 

Suddenly, it’s all too much. The room is too small, too hot. Castiel’s sweater is smothering him and the air feels suffocating. There are too many people, and they’re all looking—he can’t do this. “Would you excuse me?” he mutters to Dean. Not much caring what Gabriel does, he ignores his cousin and beelines for the front door. 

On the way, he runs smack into Anna, who takes one look at his face and draws him aside. “Castiel, what’s wrong? You look—”

“This is so stupid,” Castiel grunts out from between gritted teeth. He’s still holding the stupid beer, sloshing it everywhere as he lifts a hand to anxiously wipe at his forehead. He feels _panicked._ “You shouldn’t have—you all _pushed_ me into this, this _thing_ with Dean. What, you thought we’d run away and live happily ever after? That I’d do an abrupt one-eighty on my entire life just to have someone to fuck me to sleep every night? God, Anna, you’re so damn selfish.” 

He feels guilty the minute the words slip out of his mouth, more so as Anna pulls back, stung. Her hand slips from his arm as she gapes, but her expression turns stormy quickly enough. Before Castiel can even think of taking it back, Anna slaps him across the face. “You’re an idiot, Cas,” she says evenly, and Castiel can only be grateful that she brought them into the side hallway before going all Real Housewives on his ass. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“No, you’re not,” she replies matter-of-factly. “If you stopped projecting for _one_ second, maybe you could see more clearly what’s going on here. _No one_ forced you to like Dean, to flirt with him, to pursue him. Cas, you’re so intent on being right about your own bullshit, you’re willing to lie to yourself about the things _you_ really want in life. God,” Anna complains, throwing her hands up before planting them on her hips. “You’re _such_ an idiot.” 

“Maybe I am,” Castiel says, rubbing his cheek and refusing to meet her eyes. “It’s my life.”

“Yeah,” Anna agrees, nodding in a way that only Anna could make perfectly clear was patent disagreement. “I just thought you loved yourself enough not to throw it all away.” She turns on her heel, walking away towards the bathroom before stopping and glancing over her shoulder. She rubs her belly, and Castiel feels even worse. “Dean doesn’t even want anything from you,” she says softly. “Or haven’t you noticed? He hasn’t asked you for a damn thing.” 

“He _will,_ ” Castiel insists. “That’s what this is leading towards. He’s going to ask me to stay or to come back, or worse, to try and maintain some long-distance—Anna, I _can’t.”_

“You don’t _know_ that,” Anna explodes, her voice loud enough to make the collective buzz in the other room dim for a moment. She glances in that direction, waiting for the noise level to return to normal before speaking again. “Did you even _ask_ him? Have you talked about it _with him_ at all? Maybe you fucking should, before your one-braincell-having head burns that out too with all this freaking out.” 

“It wouldn’t change—”

“Cas, _think about it._ You really believe your mom, your dad, _Ellen, me—_ you think _all_ of us would have pushed you towards someone we thought would give you an ultimatum? God, we all overestimated your ability to act like an adult, though, didn’t we? Dean is the _one guy—_ ” She cuts herself off, waving her hands and shaking her head. “If you won’t _talk_ to him, it doesn’t matter, anyway.” 

Castiel’s one-braincell-head takes a second to catch up. “Wait—what? You—there was really a conspiracy here?”

Anna sighs, pressing one hand into her lower back in a gesture of both pain and exhaustion. She lifts her free palm and then drops it with a shrug. “Yes. No. Not really, I don’t know. Dean was here when Bobby called him about your ride. We might have given him some... _tips,_ warnings. You probably guessed that much.” 

Lifting an eyebrow, Castiel just stares at her and waits. He did assume that much, though.

“And then you guys really _did_ hit it off. Mom and Ellen were so excited—I dunno. It was never a plan. It was exactly what you saw, with a lot of hope behind it. And people who know both you and Dean _really_ god damn well, sensing an opportunity. But it doesn't matter,” Anna finishes resignedly. “Because you’ve already decided. So. Congratulations. Merry fucking Christmas.” 

With that, Anna stalks off to the bathroom (which thankfully has no line waiting to witness Castiel’s semi-public disembowelment), or anyone standing awkwardly under the mistletoe. She slams the door before he can get a word in edgewise. More confused than ever and increasingly depressed, Castiel clutches his half-empty beer and makes for the front door. He opens it and steps outside in full view of the party. He’s not trying to be discrete, he doesn’t care who sees. 

His keys are in his car, maybe he can—

“Cas.” 

Dean’s soft voice comes from behind as Castiel stands at the edge of the front porch. It’s followed by the quiet drag and click of the door. Castiel closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly. He can hear Dean’s footsteps approaching, and he just does _not_ want to do this, doesn’t want any part of it.

“Dean, please,” he starts, holding up a hand. “Could we just...not do this? You’ve always known that I was leaving. Let’s not make this hard.” 

“What?” Dean sounds genuinely confused, and the hand on Castiel’s elbow makes him turn. Seeing Dean’s face—it’s almost more than Castiel can take, definitely _way_ too much for how little he knows the man, how much their nothing relationship should mean to him at this point. “Cas, what are you doing, man? Why—”

“Well, _one_ of us has to,” Castiel snaps. “One of us has to be the sensible one, the guy who points out that this—” He gestures between their chests. “—has an endpoint. I’m sorry you can’t understand, but—” 

“Stop it,” Dean says, his brow furrowing as he steps closer. “This is stupid. Why the hell does this have to have an endpoint? Who says?” Castiel just works his jaw, remaining stone-faced as he stares out into the yard at the slowly-falling snow. Suddenly, Dean growls, and Castiel finds himself being grabbed by the lapels, unceremoniously shoved up against the side of the house.

“Hey—”

Dean crosses an arm across his chest, keeping him from moving. “You’re gonna listen to me,” he says, and Castiel shrinks a little, already feeling deflated. Somewhere inside of him, a little voice is _screaming, “Give me half a reason, give me a way.”_ But what way out of this could there be?

“Everyone is so violent today,” he mutters instead.

“I’m going to ask you... _one_ question,” Dean says carefully, his warm breath tickling Castiel’s face, he’s that close. “And if the answer is no, I’ll leave you alone. You’ll never hear from me again. But you gotta be one hundred percent honest.”

Swallowing hard, Castiel nods. “Alright.”

“Do you have feelings for me?” 

“Dean—”

“Not love. Not—Just, any feelings at all. You agreed.” Dean’s piercing gaze burns into him, and Castiel finds himself nodding, unable to form words, never mind get them out of his mouth for several long moments.

He licks his lips. “But—”

“Uh uh,” Dean cuts him off, but he releases Castiel from under his pinned arm and steps back. Strangely, Castiel’s not sure that makes him any happier. “Listen to me, alright?” Castiel nods. “Here’s the thing.” Dean pauses, swipes his nose with the back of his index finger and then points it at Castiel.

“You make me crazy.” Castiel narrows his eyes, affronted, but Dean holds up a hand. “You’re no picnic, Cas. You’re difficult, half the time you’re a brat.”

“This is very endearing.”

“Remember when you said that love at first sight is just an excuse for bad decision-making?” Castiel nods, smiling a little against his will at the memory of that first night at the bar. “Yeah? Well, here’s the thing. Despite all that, I like you too. And I dunno about all this “love at first sight,” bullshit. I mean, maybe it’s crap—it’s probably crap—but dammit, Cas, I wanna make bad decisions with you.”

This is _exactly_ what Castiel was trying to avoid. He _knew_ Anna was wrong, _knew it,_ and—

“Will you stop?” Dean’s face comes back into focus from wherever Castiel zoned out to, and he realizes that Dean is holding both of his biceps, forcing him to focus. “Stay with me here, stop wandering off into your head. _Listen_ to me. Listen. I wanna come with you.”

That brings Castiel up short, has his protests dying on his lips. “You—what? Where?”

“On your tour,” Dean says placidly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Before you say no, consider this. I _never_ take time off. I’ve got a hell of a savings account, I can pay my own way, probably six times over. All I fuckin’ do is work, and when I’m not working, I’ve got my side-hustles. Thing is though, all of my bosses have been dying for me to take a break for years. Hell, most of them are Bobby, and the ones that aren’t are people like your mom and Ellen. Dude, I could disappear from Incline Village for _months_ and still pick up right where I left off when I got back.”

“I…” Something goes here, Castiel knows it, he just can’t figure out what that something is. This is—this is too good to be true. Things like this don’t _happen_ to people like him—he doesn’t even believe in it! There has to be reason to say no, to turn Dean down, but—

“There’s no risk, Cas. Not to me.” Dean drops his arms, but he stays close, and Castiel finally lets himself admit that he wants him there. _Badly._ “Cas, you said you feel something for me, was that a lie?”

“No,” Castiel replies immediately, shaking his head. “Not at all. I do, I—I can’t put a name to the feeling, I’m sorry for that. It’s not love, because it _can’t_ be. We simply don’t know each other well enough for that. But it is...something.”

Dean cracks a smile. “We’re not in love, Cas. But maybe we _could_ be, and don’t you wanna find out? Isn’t that all “love at first sight” is, sunshine? Potential? That spark between two people that if you let it, can grow into a full-blown blaze? You’re really willing to throw all that away because you don’t wanna be wrong?” 

Castiel’s mouth drops open slightly, but he has to admit, Dean is right. And Dean’s _not_ declaring his love, he’s not asking Castiel for something he can’t give. In fact, he’s barely even asking Castiel to meet him in the middle. No, in fact, Dean is finding Castiel exactly where he is and telling him that it’s _okay_ to stay there, if that’s what he needs, because Dean—Dean’s _fine_ with coming all the way to him.

“What if...what if it doesn’t work out?”

Dean shrugs. “So? No risk, far as I can see. Maybe two weeks in, we figure out we’re shit at sharing space and you hate my toothbrush hanging out in the cup next to yours. I pack up, fly home, no one’s worse for the wear.”

Slowly, Castiel nods. “That’s reasonable. But—”

Dean isn’t done, though, and he barrels right over Castiel’s inevitable protests.

“Or maybe we date. Maybe we have our next night out in L.A., and the one after that in Chicago. Maybe we see all the tourist attractions and keep each other laughing on long plane rides and during late, miserable nights. Maybe I bring you coffee exactly the way you like it while you’re stuck at signings, maybe I rub the cramps out of your autograph hand in bed at night. Maybe, after all that, we fall in love, you propose to me on your stupid podcast, and we get married at Naomi’s Ugly Sweater Party next Christmas. Cas,” Dean says urgently. “Don’t you want to find out?” 

Holy fuck, he _does._ Something inside Castiel breaks, _shatters,_ and he finally feels safe enough to admit that there’s _nothing_ he wants more. Nodding vehemently, he surges forward and kisses Dean silly, wrapping arms around his neck and squeezing.

“I’m so sorry,” he says between presses of lips. “I’m a mess, I—”

“I like you so much,” Dean tells him. “I don’t care if you’re a mess. We’re all messes, anyway.”

Castiel draws back slightly, sighing and leaning their foreheads together. “I can’t believe you—you’d _uproot_ your entire life that way, for a man you only just met.”

Dean shrugs. “It’s an extended vacation. Worst-case scenario, it’s a hot fling and I get some well-deserved time off. Trust me, Cas, Bobby and Ellen are gonna be _ecstatic._ They’ve been wanting to renovate my place for over a year now and I won’t leave long enough for them to do anything.” 

“Speaking of Ellen,” Castiel adds. “And my mother, and Anna. I know this is—I always tell myself not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but—was this their idea?” 

Dean hedges, tipping his head from side to side. “They may have planted some seeds,” he admits. Castiel makes a face and Dean reacts strongly, framing the sides of his head with both hands. “It was _my_ choice,” he says. “And unlike some people, I didn’t run away from it. I found you, and I said so.” 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, somewhat shamed but mostly grateful. “I’m sorry again.” 

“Make it up to me,” Dean says with a wink, dropping Castiel’s face to grab his hand, tugging him off the porch and around the side of the house.

“Where are we going?”

“Your room. Any objections?”

“God, no.” Castiel rushes to keep up with Dean’s enthusiastically long strides.

***

Castiel spreads Dean out on his Batman sheets and gives him the epic blowjob he deserves. It’s been awhile since he’s done this, but sense memory is definitely a thing, and Dean is a vocal and responsive partner. He’s easy and relaxed in bed, unashamed of his body and unafraid to ask for what he wants. 

A slow trip down Dean’s torso—in which Castiel attempts to lick and nip at every single inch of Dean’s skin—has him discovering that Dean’s nipples are particularly sensitive. He spends an endless amount of time on them, biting and sucking and tweaking them both, just because it makes Dean squirm and groan beneath him so beautifully. 

“Lovely,” Castiel whispers, lips skating over a purple bruise that’s forming just underneath Dean’s left areola. He can feel Dean’s heart beating below the cage of his ribs, accelerating with his mounting excitement, just like his breath. It’s all so new, so fascinating, and yet Castiel also feels— _somehow—_ like they’ve done this a thousand times and over many, many years. 

It’s the effortless way he and Dean fit together, the ease with which they find each other’s sweet spots, the way they each manage to draw out their mutual and individual desires. 

“Hotel sex is the best,” Dean blurts out, as Castiel finishes sucking another kiss into the sensitive skin of his thigh. Dean spreads his legs further, encouraging Castiel to continue as he talks. Entirely over arguing tonight, Castiel obliges, grabbing the base of Dean’s cock and licking a stripe up the length with the flat of his tongue. 

“Oh, _God,_ yes,” Dean responds, taking an extended moment to cope and catch his breath, hand curling into Castiel’s hair. “Doing it in new places is crazy exciting. You ever— _ah—_ fuck on a balcony?” His composure while being swallowed is commendable, but Castiel is beginning to take it as a challenge.

Stroking Dean lazily, he finishes swirling his tongue around the head of his cock before pulling off with a slurp. Dean shivers. “No,” he concedes, “But I have a feeling I’m going to.” He relaxes his jaw and goes again, taking as much of Dean into his mouth as possible, until the crown bumps the back of his throat.

Throwing a hand over his forehead, Dean moans and Castiel’s hair is tugged deliciously. _Better._ “So much— _oh, fuck yes,_ ” Dean groans, as Castiel doubles down on twisting his fist and hollowing his cheeks. “So much I want to do with you.” 

That one is sweet, and it brings Castiel up short. Instead of continuing on his mission, he sits up, hopping off the bed to strip out of the remainder of his clothes. With the focus on him, Dean ended up naked while Castiel did not, but with everything that’s happened, Castiel’s just feeling like they need more closure, more _connection_ than that. 

“Come here,” he says, climbing into the bed beside Dean and pulling the cover sheet up over them. When Dean scoots closer, Castiel throws a leg over his hip and swivels his own pelvis to position them _just_ so. He grabs Dean’s hand, bringing it to his mouth and licking his palm until it’s nice and wet. Pushing it down between them, a dark-eyed Dean quickly gets the hint. With an approving moan, Dean wraps his hand around both of their shafts and begins to stroke, saliva and the increasing amount of pre-cum that’s down there easing the way.

“That’s it,” Castiel encourages, covering Dean’s hand with his own. He works his hips slightly, just enough to give them a bit of added friction and interest. “Kiss me?”

Dean’s all too swift to obey—diving forward to capture Castiel’s mouth and licking between the seam of his lips like he’s starving. It’s increasingly warm under the covers, increasingly slick between their bodies. Castiel leans into it, kisses Dean and works them both with his hand, letting the tension swirl and build until Dean is practically panting, crying his relief into Castiel’s mouth. 

He comes less than a minute later, despite the fact that he’s felt like he could since well before Dean began trembling and warning that he was close. Castiel just wanted to _see,_ wanted to watch with fascination the way Dean’s eyes dropped shut, the way his muscles locked up, the way his kisses turned hot and open-mouthed and sloppy—just _perfection._ The mess between them is the least of it, but it’s _proof,_ proof that Dean wants him, wants him to stay. Or rather—wants him to _go,_ as long as he can go with him.

Everything about Dean is so dynamic and beautiful, and Castiel—the man who still does not believe in love at first sight—believes that he’ll never become tired of looking at Dean, of treasuring him.

But he supposes he’ll find out.

***

_3 MISSED CALLS_

_MISSED CALL: CHARLIE BRADBURY_

_MISSED CALL: CHARLIE BRADBURY_

_MISSED CALL: CHARLIE BRADBURY_

_28 NEW TEXT MESSAGES_

_Charlie: Holy shit_

_Charlie: the livestream was so good. it was a great idea to bring Dean on w/you!!!_

_Charlie: twitter is blowing up_

_Charlie: you guys are a hit!!!!_

_Charlie: cas i can’t believe you outed yourself_

_Charlie: not about being gay, think everyone knew that_

_Charlie: no offense_

_Charlie: being gay rules go team gay_

_Charlie: but about not believing in love at first sight_

_Charlie: lmao u realize that was basically calling your audience idiots right_

_Charlie: DEAN WAS SO CUTE THO HE SAVED YOUR ASS_

_Charlie: the way he talked about how you guys met_ 💀

_Charlie: and the santa thing, dude. It SOUNDS made-up. totally perfect_

_Charlie: holy bananas, I could not think up better PR if you paid me! which. actually. people do. pay me for PR. that’s my job. You’re welcome, since i forced you into doing this to begin with_

_Charlie: srsly though, you both did great_

_Charlie: anyway twitter is torn—half of them think you’re a fake couple to promo Cas’ book, half of them think you’re the cutest thing since Love, Actually defined the standard_

_Charlie: that movie sucked btw don’t take that as an endorsement_

_Charlie: FUCKING ANSWER ME YOU COWARDS_

_Charlie: Oh_

_Charlie: I just realized, what you said at the end about celebrating...you probably weren’t kidding, huh_

_Charlie: i changed my mind don’t call me back_

_Charlie: i don’t want to hear your post-sex voice_

_Charlie: wait yes i do, call me back_

_Charlie: love u_

_Charlie: we’re totally live streaming your eventual wedding, btw. how much of a buy-in to get you both to wear ugly christmas sweaters under your tuxes?_   
_Charlie:_ 🤣

_Charlie: ok call me back seriously_

_Charlie: p.p.s. the “Let’s find out” sign-off was fucking great?!?! who even are you_

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, y'all.  
> If you're not Christmas-fic'ed out, I have a few more holiday ones on offer:  
> [Seasons of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27475996) is newly finished Theater AU and is full of Christmas/holiday/New Years feels.  
> [Home Is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19751230) is a roadtrip story that features Dean traveling home with an endverse-style homeless Cas, learning to find himself in the weeks leading up to Christmas.  
> [Where Things Grow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17025300) is canon-divergent between 13-14 curtain fluff, with TFW 2.0.  
> [All I Want For Christmas (Are Earplugs)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21656614) is a fluffy/smutty one-shot with Gas-N-Sip Cas fed up with listening to Mariah Carey and Dean helping him make some "positive memories" to the song.  
> [New All Over Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21863773) is a "found you on NYE against all odds", feel-good one-shot.  
> [The Bad Santa Clause](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21911188) is a hilarious collab feat. Dean killing Santa by accident and then having to take over and do the job with TFW backing him up.
> 
> Want to see what I'm working on next or get updates? Come follow me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/caslostwings)  
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**Author's Note:**

> Required AO3 disclaimer for Fic Facers: This story is not affiliated, associated, endorsed by, or in any way officially connected with Random Acts, or any of its subsidiaries or its affiliates. All donations have been paid directly to Random Acts, who do not own Supernatural or any of the characters in the stories.


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